


Definition of Insanity

by xByDefault



Category: LazyTown
Genre: Angst, Bessie being a freakin' mother figure whether Sportacus asked for it or not, Homelessness, M/M, Mention of Character Death, Robbie has to deal with the consequences of his actions for once and he's not very good at it, Slow Burn, Sportacus Whump, Sportacus sucks at dealing with his own emotional well-being, does the airship count as character death?, might go up to M rated for adult situations, more like surprise feelings really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24921043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xByDefault/pseuds/xByDefault
Summary: The definition of insanity: Is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.Try enough times and probability theory kicks in.One of Robbie's schemes actually works, a bit too well, and Sportacus suffers the consequences and will have to come to terms with some things about himself as a permanent resident in LazyTown.
Relationships: Robbie Rotten/Sportacus
Comments: 175
Kudos: 160





	1. Up in Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted to write this particular story for over two years but refrained because I had other stories and life in general going on, and thought as well that this was a bit too self indulgent. 
> 
> Welp.
> 
> Let's do this.

The definition of insanity: Is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

Appropriately enough, practicing follows a similar pattern.

They’d always thought that the hare-brained attempts by their local villain had been the former.

Turns out that Robbie had merely been practicing the entire time.

_Who would’ve thought that engine oil could burn so violently._

A reprise from an earlier ploy with slight modification to override the airships system, the hero suspected, by distracting and locking the inhabitant out while disengaging the ship’s controls, steering locked and unresponsive to outer stimuli, no getting in or out. Impassable for any of their efforts. He might even have made it worse on his own by binding and obstructing the engine rotors in his and the children’s vain attempt to stop it.

A stray spark inside the gondola, as far as those involved knew, from the straining and overheating apparatus of his ship was all it took.

And no working fire suppressants.

Not that the details mattered, not anymore anyway.

_Who would’ve thought that steel and canvas could burn so brightly, lightning the evening sky like a second descending sun._

* * *

Sportacus could only be grateful that the ship hadn’t crashed into the town itself, but in an agricultural field at the outskirts. Still too close for comfort, though. And the danger was far from over.

It was still in the very first stages of springtime, and the brown grass and trees with their bare branches were nothing but kindle to further fuel the fire, to escalate it into an out of control disaster. Sportacus, who was lacking any actual means of successfully containing the violent flames devouring his airship, save for the meagre watering system close to the field that he’d tore up by hand to gain access to the water, was currently fighting a losing battle against eight tons of burning neoprene and metal. And try as he’d might, he couldn’t get any closer than he already was to the blistering heat and was forced to focus on the immediate environment instead, trying to keep it from spreading into a wildfire. Anything just to buy them a little more time.

“The fire brigade should be here in twenty minutes, if we’re lucky,” the Mayor, Mr. Meanswell, gasped, hands on his knees and short of breathe from the run from his office.

Not lucky enough, he thought and adjusted the goggles over his already irate eyes. LazyTown had once had its own fire station, but in recent years resources had been reallocated and deemed that MayhemTown’s was close enough if needed since LazyTown had its very own fully equipped hero to deal with any minor accidents that could befall the small countryside settlement. Former fully equipped now.

Someone’s camera flash went off on their phone and Sportacus bared teeth in a grimace under the damp rag he’d tied over the lower half of his face. They’d attracted a crowd of LazyTowners that had come to watch with morbid curiosity. If they were there just to gawk for the sake of staring at the crashed airship then they… He shook his head in a negative jerk. No. They were putting themselves in unnecessary danger and if not from the rising flames, then inevitably from the black smoke billowing out of the burning wreckage.

“Tell everyone to go back inside, close all windows and ventilation of their homes,” Sportacus directed to the appointed head of town, trying to command the situation. “These fumes are toxic.”

“Oh, oh yes the smoke, yes of course.” The older man straightened up.

Sportacus was to nod in approval and turn back to the task at hand, when he sighted the townschildren come running their direction, through and past the onlooking crowd, trying to make their way towards the inferno. Towards _him_. And his heart hiccupped. No, this here was no game and nothing they could help with. They were way past and beyond that.

“Milford, get the kids out of here!”

“I, wha-”

“Get the kids out of here! _Now!_ ” Sportacus barked. He caught the glimpse of the Mayor’s shocked face at his outburst before the rotund man snapped out of it and _finally_ intercepted his niece and friends and started to follow earlier given instructions of corralling the crowd back to the town.

A loud bang from the air valve of the ballonet at the rear as it exploded from the pressure and sent a wave of scalding air and fire, washing over the flattened field in their direction. It was enough incentive for the locals to hurry away, and parents having the wits about them to take their children out of harm’s way.

Ten more minutes, he could hold out for that long until aid arrived.

Gritting his teeth with determination he redirected the waterflow of the busted piping. The landowner was not going to like this, he mused in a detached manner. But rather that, than burning down the whole area and put all lives at risk.

It was his job, was supposed to be his job; to keep people safe. No matter the personal consequences and his own safety.

He’d thought that it had already broken when it all came crashing down, but now he knew with certainty that the computering system gave up the ghost when the audio vocalizer of the Virtual Intelligence gave off a harrowing static _screech_ and Sportacus momentarily lost his composure and dropped to his knees at the noise and felt something close to the heart wrenching wail echo back within as it died.

It was just a machine, so why did it feel so _human_ to him?

Five minutes, and he wouldn’t be fighting this alone.

Except, he wasn’t alone, he came to realise to his dismay and equal chagrin when he caught a noise sounding suspiciously like his own name, too close to his own position and he raised his gaze.

All of the LazyTowners had returned to safety. Mr. Meanswell had seen to that.

Save for one lone individual apparently.

Sportacus hadn’t seen the man since the engines had combusted, too caught up in assessing the situation unfolding before him.

“Robbie?”

Crooked and almost ghostly in the amber light, there his villain stood erected like a bad omen. Where Robbie had come from was beyond Sportacus. Maybe he’d rounded the side of the wreckage? Maybe he’d just arrived to behold his victory? The man looked sick to him. With his already pale face now stark white under smears of soot, and his eyes wide and wild. As if he couldn’t comprehend that he himself was the creator of this very outcome.

Shouldn’t he instead be celebrating right now?

Shouldn’t he be gloating?

A catenary curtain snapped, and the wire flailed outwards, towards where the dumbstruck man was and Sportacus acted with the crystal ringing in his ears.

His goggles came back up askew on his forehead in the tumult and the rag fell off as they tumbled across the ground from the impact.

Truth be told, there was something disturbingly satisfying to roughly tackle and slam the villain down into the grass. A petty revenge for all the events that had led them here.

“No, get off m-!” Robbie cut himself off meeting Sportacus’ irate wet gaze and froze up in his struggle.

“Are you happy?” Sportacus asked genuinely, straddling over and effectively pinning the man beneath him on his back, digging his fingers deep into the grass tufts and dirt by Robbie’s head.

Robbie just kept staring back up at him in stunned silence, biting down hard enough on his own lower lip that Sportacus was surprised that he did not draw blood.

With a snarl, Sportacus finally succumbed and yelled in his face, “is this what you wanted?! Are you happy now?!” The sound of his broken voice coming out sounding hysterical in his own ears.

Robbie’s too big eyes flickered over to the carnage _he_ had orchestrated. “But, but,” Robbie cried out underneath him in a stammer, looking back at him, “how?! Noble gas doesn’t burn!” Not really answering Sportacus’ question, but confirming that this had not been quite the outcome the man had counted on.

“No,” Sportacus chipped out in a strained staccato, trying to regain control of his voice, regain control of himself, “but aluminium and silver conduits does.”

And everything else made out of flammable material as well.

The glass of the gondola shattered and Sportacus let his villain go, getting up on his knees before him. “Go, it’s not safe.”

Wordlessly, Robbie scrambled onto his feet and ran back into the darkness, and that was the last Sportacus saw of him.

It was all too fitting that he started to feel the first droplets of rain hit his face, just as the sound and flashing lights of the fire truck could be made out in the distance.

* * *

He suspected that he looked like he was in quite the state, more so confirmed by Stephanie’s mixed outcry of relief but also distress when she’d spotted him through the window and had bolted outside her uncle’s house in nothing but her pink pyjamas. No song, no dance, just a long hard hug around his middle.

With one last reassuring pat on her shoulder, Sportacus saw Stephanie reluctantly climb back up the stairs of the Meanswell residence, the girl’s worries of his well-being soothed enough that she was finally agreeable to change the now dirtied pyjamas and go to bed. The clock on the wall told him that it was closer to midnight now, way past all of their bedtimes and he should feel tired to his bones, as it was he more felt… Detached. Disconnected from his surroundings.

Ms. Busybody looked up at Sportacus after she as well had been watching the girl leave them. “Did they check you for smoke inhalation,” the older plump woman inquired once she concluded that Stephanie was out of hearing range.

“I have a sore throat and slight cough,” Sportacus answered truthfully. Besides that, any thorough testing they had suggested if he started to show further symptoms would come out abnormal by human standards anyway.

“I’m just saying that succumbing to the very thing you tried to shield us from, is rather…” trailing off, she sighed and shook her head, pulling a crocheted shawl tighter over her shoulders, sharing a pointed look with Mr. Meanswell before addressing Sportacus again. “Where will you sleep tonight? I’m sure we could arrange something, and anybody here would readily volunteer to have you. I have a spare room I could clean out for you.”

His gaze flitted towards the windows and the rain still falling outside in the now pitch dark. “I… That would be kind. I don’t want to impose on anyone, though.” Being around anyone right now, was too much.

Ms. Busybody pursed her mouth and seemed to be about to call Sportacus out on his unreasonableness when her live apart partner interjected.

“Ah, well,” Mr. Meanswell shuffled, clasping the back of his neck in ill-ease, “the town hall has a vacant resting room, or more akin to an overnight room… If that would be more to your liking?” he offered.

Sportacus felt the corner of his mouth tug upwards. “That would be more than enough,” he replied and accepted the clumsy offer. “Thank you, Milford.”

The woman shook her head once again and muttered something under her breath that not even Sportacus could quite make out, and stomped away in the direction of the stove in the kitchen and started to rummage about. She returned and pressed a thermos in his hand. “Tomato soup,” she informed, “return the thermos tomorrow, please?” It sounded more like an order than a request to him, but he nodded and thanked her for her kindness, both of their kindness.

The Mayor had brought fresh bedlinen and towels with them. Informing Sportacus that there was a small shower room across the hall at the upper level for him to wash off the soot and dirt as he unlocked the front door of his office, tentatively filling the air with titbits when the awkward silence became too much for him to bear from under his umbrella. Meanwhile, for the opposite reason, Sportacus had drunk the contents of the thermos as they’d walked the short stretch to the rotund man’s workplace, realising that he was starving as soon as the smell of the seasoning had hit his senses.

Sportacus finished off the last of the creamy soup. “Give Bessie my thanks again.” He tried to give the now empty thermos back to the man.

Who in turn shook his head and motioned for him to keep it. “She’ll want it to be you, trust me.”

Sportacus had had that inkling, yes.

“I hope we won’t disturb you in the morning when office hours starts,” he said, “but you’re an early riser anyway aren’t you? You can lock all the upstairs doors if you want to be alone,” he added and gave Sportacus a spare key of his own.

“It won’t be a problem,” he found himself droning.

Mr. Meanswell’s mouth tugged in a tight smile that didn’t reach his dark eyes. “You can stay here for as long as you need.”

How many times could Sportacus say ‘ _Thank you_ ’ before it lost its meaning?

One hand on the doorknob, tottering in the entrance and looking uncomfortable, Mr. Meanswell said before parting, “I, uhm... Sportacus, I am sorry, truly.”

Sportacus wanted to object that that particular excuse was not for him to make. He instead gave him a weak smile and shook his head.

“Well, good night then. I'll see you in the morning…”

Following the directions the Mayor had given him he found the aforementioned overnight room they had in the public building. It was small, fitting not much more than a single bed, bedside table, and a chair under a window with already pulled down blinds. Not made for anything more than resting or the occasional burning the midnight oil. Though, the latter was something that was thankfully exceedingly rare since he’d arrived in town, as far as he knew.

His arms stung and throbbed from the wet fabric dragging over the tender skin. Could’ve been worse he figured as he peeled off the wet remnants of his singed uniform in the washing room and took stock. The bracers would need to be buffed and his shirt in need of a good wash, one of the few articles spared from too much exposure. The vest and trousers seemed to be past saving, however. He’d just have to wash everything and hope for the best. This was all he had left now, no spares to replace the ruined uniform.

And the washing mirror over the sink didn’t reflect a flattering image either. Dirty matted blond hair over a face smeared with soot and dried sweat, his eyes bloodshot and the skin of his left cheek pinking into what he hoped was only a first degree burn, same for his arms and other exposed areas.

While watching the grime pollute the water and swirl down the drain by his feet, resting heavily against the linoleum wall with his forehead on his raised arm in the small shower cubicle, the out of body feeling was finally starting to abate. The feeling replacing it, however, wasn’t better.

Dead tired on his feet Sportacus haphazardly made the bed and collapsed onto it. Turned off the dingy lamp on the bedside table and burrowed deep into the covers.

And _that’s_ when he allowed everything to sink in.

Drawing himself into a fetal position and pressing his face into the pillow, he cried.

_Who would’ve thought that his home could burn so violently and bright._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robbie, you gon fucked it up. Also, this is like the third time I have Sportacus tackle someone and second time it being Robbie.
> 
> Why yes, I do like to be cruel to Sportacus, there is something rather cathartic about (literally) pulling him down to earth.
> 
> Apparently the airship (RIP) is some ungodly bastardization of a blimp and a semi-rigid airship and that pisses me off because now I know more about aerostats than the show directors did.
> 
> Thank you for reading and remember to leave kudos in the tip jar on your way out if you enjoy whatever this is.


	2. Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst, because angst.

A pale long face, hands, was it his or the other’s?

No, his.

Eyes showing whites.

Stop, stop, stop.

Stop!

‘ _Are you happy now?!_ ’

Sportacus was awoken by a single beam of yellow sunlight through the blinds hitting his face, and the sound of muffled voices coming from downstairs and he cracked open dry bleary eyes. Office hours already? Town hall didn’t open until nine… Wait, was it past nine?

He rubbed his eyes, yawning and tried to will himself to wake up proper. His sleep had not been restful, far from it, truthfully he was surprised that he’d gotten any shuteye at all, and he felt sluggish with a vague headache matched by the ache in his sinuses as he sat up with a pained groan. He’d been dreaming, phantom images of deathly pale faces and, judging by the dread still present behind his sternum, it had not been a good one.

Still not all there, Sportacus made the mistake of scratching his arm and winced. The cool shower had soothed his skin, though it was still tender and the linen felt course against his naked skin still, and he wished that he’d tended to the burns last night with more care. If he could get his hands on some kind of salve or ointment then that would be of some help to elevate his physical discomfort. Though, that was the least of his problems and he’d gotten lucky, all things considered.

It would heal. The burns were covering extensive areas, yes, but they were not severe. First degree burns from sheer proximity not direct contact. They would fade and the tissue would regenerate. Nor had his symptoms from irate airways gotten worse. The paper towels had already stopped coming off with grey mucus when he blew his nose as well and his sore throat was slightly better than when he’d gone to bed.

Yes, the physical would heal and go back to normal.

Unlike other things.

The Mayor had said that Sportacus could stay in town hall for as long as he needed, but, how long was that, really? Days, weeks, _months_? Not years. He was sure of that if anything. He couldn’t stay there forever. He _could_ camp. Although that would require equipment, it was warmer, yes, but not warm enough to sleep unprotected in the elements. And then there was the matter of sustenance. It was not season for crops to grow and trees to bear fruit for many months in this region.

When he’d needed to resupply, he could travel to somewhere where nature could provide if his current location weren’t in season or other resources were lacking. And money for buying whatever else he needed… There had been an allowance, a pay of sorts. It had not been much, but it had been enough for him, you didn’t get onto this path for riches. That money had been wired to his computer system, to the ship. Along with any form of communications, no more paper airplanes to home in on it or to be sent.

He was completely cut off.

Furthermore so reminded when he opened up a panel in one of his discarded bracers and the display showed the word ‘ _Offline_ ’ in bold letters. The clock seemed to work fine, though, and his eyes boggled at the numbers on the screen.

“Ten thirty?!” he exclaimed in disbelief at the digital clock.

Okay, one thing first. Get dressed and then return the thermos.

His stomach grumbled. And food, breakfast was still important.

As for getting dressed. His uniform was left to dry in the washing room. It would be damp and unpleasant, but he wouldn’t smell like an industrial fire Sportacus comforted himself with as he opened the door and was to cross the corridor.

His naked foot came in contact with something on the floor outside the door.

Sportacus looked down to discover a pile of folded clothes tied together with plain packing string. A blue cap neatly folded into a little square on top with goggles and a pair of boots next to the packet itself, and with a start he came to realise that it was a copy of his uniform.

The feeling of wonder was quickly replaced by apprehension. Someone had clearly come by earlier to drop this off for him, however… He had locked the door to the stairway, he’d been fairly sure of it. At least, he thought that he had, and he began to doubt himself. His mind had been cloudy and he’d been upset when he’d arrived in town hall. He could very well have forgotten or, or…

Mr. Meanswell had a key of his own… Maybe it had been him. This was his workplace after all.

He looked around himself before picking up the gifts, assuming that they were, holding them close to his chest and retreated back. Sitting down on the bed again, he untied the string and held the garments before him, and a wrinkle formed on his forehead in further confusion; at closer inspection he as well came to realise that it wasn’t some knockoff copy or even a new product. Turning and twisting the articles in his hands he noticed slight wear and tear. This was far from a new production yet the quality was up to standard. It was an authentic set and he recognised it as one of his original spare uniform.

Maybe it really had been Mr. Meanswell, but that still didn’t answer the new question of where the man possibly could’ve gotten the uniform from.

The new spare did come into good use.

Scratch that about his attire from yesterday not smelling like an industrial fire. The odour still lingered, having saturated the material through and through, and the quick rinse he’d subjected the articles to in the shower was nothing more than a mockery.

Somehow, he seemed even worse off now than when he’d gone to bed the night prior. He’d had a rough night and his body did a poor job of concealing it. At least the cold water he splashed in his face reduced the swelling under his eyes and soothed the now red mark on his cheek. He’d really need to get something to treat it with. He could perhaps ask Ms. Busybody, he thought and rummaged through the washing room for anything resembling more than heavy duty soap, making a noise of triumph when the washing mirror turned out to conceal a cabinet with toiletries. At least there was a toothbrush in an unopened package and some toothpaste. Small victories, relatively speaking. It was by pure reflex he did it when he was done, the toothbrush he’d used was out of his hand before he could stop the movement. The object hit the wall and ricocheted back and nearly hit him in the eye on the rebound.

“Ow!”

He was definitely awake now.

Sportacus considered the option of simply jumping out of the window rather than facing the people downstairs, before he shook his head at the very notion.

The door to the stairway was locked as he’d recalled. Cementing that it had not been any unauthorised persons outside his temporary sleeping arrangement.

“There you are!” came the familiar piercing voice of Ms. Busybody the very same moment as he entered the ground floor and into the front office.

“Good morning, Bessie,” he replied in greeting, smiling stiffly at her.

Perhaps the act of defenestration wouldn’t have been so bad after all. Thankfully, she didn’t inquire if he’d slept well.

“Where is Milford?” he asked.

“Out of town on a meeting, doing his job for once in his lifetime,” she replied. “He should return later in the afternoon.”

“Oh, okay. Do you happen to know where he got this spare uniform from?”

“Spare uniform?” She looked at his attire up and down, seeming to identify that this was not the same sullied set from the day before. “Oh, I see. No, but I’ll make sure to ask him.”

He hummed, approaching her. “Thank you anyway.” He handed the thermos she’d given him back towards her. “And thank you for the soup, it was very kind of you.”

She ignored the thermos and focused on his hand now that he was up close, following the arm up with her eyes and knitted her brow. “How are you not completely covered in blisters?” She sounded almost accusative at that. “Look at you… All over your hands, too… I have aloe vera and some salves,” she said, as if she had read his mind from earlier. “You haven’t had breakfast yet I suspect and I’m about to go on lunch, let’s make it brunch.”

“I, uh, a what?”

“Brunch,” the woman repeated, “late breakfast early lunch combination. Say, if that is the spare that Milford dropped off, then where is the other one?” she switched track and successfully disoriented Sportacus.

“Uhm, drying? Though… It’s not really…”

She squinted. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go collect them and bring them.”

* * *

  
The ointment was sticky as it air dried and he smelled like aloe vera and mint masking the undercurrent of antibacterial salve. He felt a little bad about it, but he’d taken some of the gauze and bandages he’d seen in her bathroom cabinet to cover and wrap up where he needed it. Having been able to have a better look at himself he’d concluded that maybe he’d underestimated the extent of his injuries. Not covered in blisters, no, but it would do him no good of risking infection, as well forego his bracers, especially if he were to go through with his plan for the rest of the day.

The ship was not going anywhere, and that was part of the issue.

His hostess did not seem to mind that he’d helped himself to the first aid kit, and though her expression had grown sombre, she gave a hum of approval at the sight as she waited for him to return. The chair she’d draped his vest over was indication enough of where she wanted him to sit by the kitchen table on which she’d placed a flowery English tea set.

There was as well something else on the table waiting for him

“This arrived in the mail this morning” she said, “I think that you should maybe see it for yourself,” and gestured towards the glossy cover of a magazine on the table between them.

Sportacus stalked up to her and let his fingers trace the frontpage of what turned out to be ‘ _Villain Weekly_ ’. “Why do you have this?” he asked. For all his knowledge, she wasn’t exactly the target audience.

“If one wishes to stay in the know,” Ms. Busybody explained in a roundabout way. “It has some of the more up to date news, and a rather nice section for culinary recipes as well.” She gave him a small apologetic smile at that.

Gossip mongering, of course.

He turned his gaze down to scrutinize the cover and its actual contents on display, and felt his stomach turn.

‘ _Hero to Zero! Robbie Rotten shoots down airship in fiery descend and in turn rises from the ashes to reclaim place among the top of the Villain list once again!_ ’

“That’s… That’s a…” Convoluted, superfluous, hurtful. “Long title,” he tried to say around something thick and acrid threatening to come up in the back of his throat.

“I believe that their so called writers gets paid by the word,” Ms. Busybody replied in a dry note and lifted a teacup up to her red lips.

Sportacus opened the referenced pages and found the article to be the very centrespread. If the frontpage had been bad, then this…

Judging by the angle the paper must’ve obtained the picture from one of the many LazyTowners that had snapped photos yesterday.

Before him on full display was the airship, frozen in time as it was devoured by a sea of flames and the sky blackened by smoke. He saw the silhouette of himself in the foreground, his back turned to the photographer and shoulders hunched. A lone defeated figure. Squinting at the enlarged picture he noted something else; beyond the inferno, up in the right corner, was the wraithlike shape of another person.

So…

Robbie had been present the entire time.

He had to avert his gaze. “Why are you showing me this?”

“I’m sorry, Sportacus. I thought that you might want to know about this. I shouldn’t-”

“No, no, it’s alright. I just… Wasn’t ready.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, exhaled and lowered his head again to read the article itself. “Thank you,” he added softly. Her intentions had been well-meaning, and, it was for the better that he found out early on that the news of the incident had started to circulate, rather than later.

Focusing solely on the text he started to read.

They really must be paid per word as the older woman had claimed, that was a lot of unnecessary and nonsensical information about date, exact time of the incident, weather conditions, even what the author of the article had eaten, before Sportacus finally got to the portion that did matter.

The small attached picture of Robbie’s sneering face was a bit of a clue as well.

‘ _Lacking the Academic background required, this dastardly charlatan has by a technicality as a Naturally Gifted Genius in mechanical engineering managed to cling to the esteemed society of ne’er-do-wellers since the very beginning. However, for some time, Robbie Rotten’s abilities have been under some scrutiny for more reasons than that after a long series of failed attempts to rid His town of a pesky hero known as Number Ten. Some said that Mr. Rotten had lost his cunning edge (if he ever had one). Others suggested sheer incompetence. And other sources (and most scandalous of all at that!) claimed that the villain had a soft spot for this Number Ten and been holding back! But, rest assure, this here is enough to put a stop so such slander. A feat very few have been gutsy enough to attempt and even fewer been able to carry through: He has successfully clipped the wings and grounded this so called “hero”._ ’

“Mr. Rotten is yet to give his own commentary on this spectacular feat,” Sportacus read out loud when he’d reached the very end. He skimmed the pages, searching if there was any further related articles and then closed the magazine, placing it front down. He asked Ms. Busybody, “has anyone seen Robbie since yesterday?”

“No,” she took a liberal sample of her tea, then looked down into her cup as she continued, “no one has seen him since then. I suspect that he’s going to keep a low profile for a while. He’s probably throwing himself his own little party down in his den right now,” she added.

Robbie hadn’t seemed to be in the celebrating mood yesterday, though. No better off than Sportacus himself had been in that moment. A pang of mixed feelings came over him again at the memory of the brief confrontation. How he’d lost his own head.

“I would like to speak to him when he resurfaces.” he said and sat down across from her.

Ms. Busybody raised a thin painted brow. “Speak, or _speak_ ,” she asked, emphasising the word and gave him an incredulous look.

He blinked, then understood what she was alluding to. “No, no! I just want to talk with him!” Exchanging words. Not fists! He wasn’t exactly a pacifist, nor was he a violent person either in that regard. He would defend himself and those that could not defend themselves, but he did not seek out to exercise violence!

Even if Robbie seemed to believe otherwise.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but,” she said as she poured a cup for Sportacus and placed it before him, “you and Robbie, why haven’t you done anything about him, even now?”

Good question.

Part of him wanted to answer that he’d considered the man harmless up until now. But that wasn’t true, was it? Far, far, from it. The man had actively sought to cause Sportacus harm from day one with traps, canons, sugar meltdowns, there’d been downright maiming at times!

The least dangerous schemes and ploys his villain had subjected him to were ganders and bets of making Sportacus leave town.

And the reason why he accepted those in the first place was not one he was willing to share with the local _gossip girl_.

Lacking a proper answer he opted to shrug and drink the bitter tea.

She gave him a level gaze, clearly dissatisfied. “Robbie destroyed your home and you’re just going to shrug and let it slide? People talk and they’re no better than this rag.”

The magazine, he gathered that she meant, and she would know all about it, wouldn’t she?

How much of the talk came from her own mouth, he wanted to ask.

Ms. Busybody continued at his silence, “you’re taking this far too well, do you know that?”

“It will all work out, it always does,” he answered, trying to smile reassuringly. It would. Somehow.

“You’re _homeless_ ,” she lobbed back. “You need a plan, or at least let people help you with one.”

“It will be okay.”

“Really? Tell me how?” She leaned forward, nearly standing out of her seat. “What will you do about the ship? Where will you live? How will you support yourself? Have you even thought about this long term in the slightest, Sportacus?”

He had. These very questions were what had plagued him all night between bouts of half lucid nightmares on repeat.

“I’ll figure it out,” he forced out.

“Then why do you not-”

“I said I-” The china clattered against the saucer as he dropped it in a fumble and tea spilled over the tabletop, and he realised that his hands were shaking, no, all of him. The lump that had been sitting in his chest since he’d woken up was crawling its way up his throat and making it hard to breathe.

“I’m sorry, I… I…” he stammered, reaching out to pick up the toppled cup and attempted to wipe the spilled liquid with a napkin.

Ms. Busybody watched him for a beat before her features softened. “Oh, Sportacus, dear.” She stood up and rounded the table to his side.

His body seized up as arms came to wrap around his shoulders. They weren’t close, this was the most he’d ever spoken to the woman in question! And yet…

At first he resisted the pull, until it all became too much, and he let out a broken sob and found himself in the very next moment clinging onto her arm in the sideway embrace where he was sitting.

“Let it out, just let it all out,” he heard her in a low tone, almost soothing despite her usual shrill voice.

By now he was weeping like a bereft child, he’d always been an ugly crier and he rarely felt better afterwards, just hollow and listless, and with a swollen red face to show for it. Eventually he ran out of what little energy he’d had to begin with and the sobbing petered out into small shuddering hiccups.

“I do not mean to antagonise you,” she spoke above his head after what seemed like an eternity after his breathing had evened out. “I’m sorry if I pushed too hard.”

Sportacus let out a shaky breath, she hadn’t needed to do that just to prove a point. He felt awful, his earlier headache now having turned into a fierce pounding and his problems still remained. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.

“It will be okay, dear, you’re right about that. But you don’t have to go through this alone. This town _owes_ you, Sportacus, and you can always ask your friends for help. It’s commendable that you try to keep a brave face for the children, but you do not need to pretend around me or Milford.”

Friends…. Not just the townschildren, but the adults; Milford and Bessie. They counted as well.

He nodded and she let go of him to straighten out her rumpled outfit then collect the china and a roll of paper towels to wipe down the table and for Sportacus to blow his nose.

Sportacus rubbed his face, pressing the balls of his hands against his eye sockets and silently cursing his red swollen eyes. “I’m sorry about just now.”

Ms. busybody tut-tutted him. “You’re allowed to have feelings. All of the feelings. You’re only… A person, like the rest of us. It’s alright to not be alright,” she finished and gave him a damp cool napkin.

All he could do at that was give her a noncommittal hum as he took it and pressed against his face.

“I believe that the children would like to see you after school. How about you join for supper when Milford gets back from his meeting and I’ll bring your cleaned uniform.”

“You really don’t need to-”

She cut him off, “what did I just say earlier?”

“…Thank you, Bessie,” he capitulated. “I’ll come by Stephanie’s house after I’ve looked at the airship.”

“I should warn you, the field it’s in belongs to old farmer Greencrop,” she informed him. “He’s of the _prickly_ sort. I believe he’s related to the Spoileros, if anything then clearly by the money pinching attitude.”

Surely the farmer could not be _that_ unpleasant, he thought. Then he remembered the ruined watering system. Well, at least Sportacus had been forewarned.

“If you need anything you know where to find us. You just need to ask. Now, about brunch,” she trailed off on a different tangent and began rummaging around her cupboards for something that Sportacus could eat.

Logically, he knew that the older woman’s words were meant to comfort him and that she indeed was right. Logically, yes, but he could not help but feel the shame afterwards of her having to see him like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I never said that Bessie would be good at the whole nurturing thing. This is more like tactical bulldozing.
> 
> Ya'll remember to leave kudos and/or comment and I'll see you for another round next time!


	3. Ground Zero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sportacus thinks too much

If Sportacus turned to face the town he could almost pretend that nothing had changed. Clear blue skies, the warmth of the spring sun on his skin and the still damp ground from last night’s rainfall under his feet. And in the distance a quaint little countryside town, with even quainter inhabitants, that he could fancy shimmered in gold from the favoured yellow stucco of the house facades.

He adjusted the borrowed backpack with supplies and willed himself to turn his gaze back upon his objective.

The burnt out derelict was exactly where he had left it last night, in a crater surrounded by a mix of upturned dirt, mud, and ash.

It was even worse now in the bright daylight, towering over him and his mind wasn’t ready to comprehend it, for what all the twisted metal had once been, as he beheld it.

The envelope, of what was left of it, was a tattered mountain of scorched polyester and neoprene stretched over the inner framework of warped aluminium trusses. And under all that was the gondola, tipped and dragged onto its side when the weight of the trusses had settled. His old living quarter and piloting helm. The bare bones of what he’d once considered his home of sorts. Wherever he’d gone in the world he’d always had his sanctum in the skies to retreat to.

 _Had_ being the operative word.

This was why you didn’t form attachments to means of transportation. Why his forerunners and wayward _colleagues_ had up until recent history opted for simpler dirigibles and air balloons. Void of advanced tech and dependency of gadgets, that he’d found himself rely on more and more.

Materialism was unbecoming for his vocation.

Should be unbecoming for a nomad such as he.

Well, there was none of that anymore now, was there?

The gondola was inaccessible to him and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. From what little Sportacus could make out through the broken glass panes by the helm, the once pristine and white interior was a blackened hollow. Not that he’d expected there to be anything left to salvage within. The only thing that could be and was worth extraction would be the flight data recorder. He’d have to right the gondola up to be able to do that, though.

He stroked his chin in thought. It would likely take several weeks for a team of humans to disassemble and move the debris. For Sportacus alone, maybe days, if he started now.

Squatting down in the shadow of the wreckage, Sportacus zipped open and rummaged through the contents of the backpack, work gloves and rope, pocketknife, water bottle, and apples. He was going to be out here for a while, he reckoned.

Where should he even begin? Just looking at the derelict and taking in its sheer size made it all the more daunting. Sportacus tried to visually compartmentalise and form some sort of list of actions. He would have to separate the gondola from the envelope by severing the rigid attachments if he wanted to gain access to that part. However, he currently lacked the equipment necessary for that task, and though he felt better after having eaten and as well dampened his headache, he wasn’t up to his normal vigour quite yet to do so by hand. What he could possibly start on with what he had brought with him was to gather the remains of the envelope and ballonets…

His pondering on his dilemma was cut short when a gruff, and rather indignant, voice came from behind him, “so, I take it that this hunk of junk is yours?” and he startled in surprise.

Sportacus didn’t quite jump out of his skin, he did however physically flip into the air over the bag to face whoever that had snuck up on him.

In front of him stood an elderly man in blue coveralls, dirty welly boots and wearing a frayed trucker cap pulled low over his eyes in a grey-bearded and weatherworn face set in a deep frown.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there, I’m Sportacus.”

“Everyone knows who you are” the old man spat. The boots squelched in the mud as he moved and Sportacus wondered how the man had managed to sneak up on him in them.

This had to be the very farmer who owned the land. “Mr. Greencrop, is it?”

The assumed farmer didn’t acknowledge the question of identity, but rather gave Sportacus a long inquisitive look from under the rim of his cap instead when Sportacus had come to face him. Before saying, “well shit, you sure you’re alright? You look like you’ve been through hell and back.” The question could’ve come across as considerate, if not for the sour note of his words.

Sportacus fought back the disapproving grimace in response to the foul language. And though he was in no position to judge, but to Sportacus, the elder looked like he himself had seen better days, too. The coveralls seemed ill-fitting, too big on their thin frame and the shadows under the eyes were dark. “It’s been a long night, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Sure do. Pretty spring bonfire, we could see it from across the acres… Guess I should thank you for making sure it didn’t get worse. You’re damn lucky this field is left fallow this year,” Mr. Greencrop replied, shoving his hands deep into his pockets of the coveralls, “we are on the clear here that you move your junk off my land, right? Hope you got a plan for it, and a better one than wrecking my watering system, too.”

“Yes, of course. It’s just, this might take some time to remove.” Sportacus wasn’t even sure _where_ he would be able to dispose of the debris. “It will be,” he stressed, “but please be patient.”

Mr. Greencrop scoffed then gave him another long scrutinising glare, mouth pursed under the scraggly beard. “You know, I might know someone who’s willing to pay a pretty penny for all that junk,” he said after a while. “Scrap metal prices aren’t what they used to be, but you seem to have a whole lot to go around in means of weight.” He motioned to the derelict. “They’ll be more than happy to get this off your hands and it’ll sure be a hell of a lot quicker than you doing this on your own.”

“Even in this state?” Sportacus asked.

“Eh,” the farmer jostled his shoulders, “they’ve probably seen worse.”

This sounded a bit too good to be true. Boons like these rarely fell into your waiting arms like this, not without a hefty price attached. “What do you want in return?” Sportacus asked tentatively.

“I want this off my property,” the farmer replied, “plain and simple. But, if you insist, decontaminating the soil from all that plastic and changing out the pipes _you_ broke will be a right pain. So, how about I take a share of the gains and we’ll call it even?”

Sportacus could very well accept those terms. If the farmer had wanted to, he could’ve taken the whole profit to keep. He himself was just relieved to have some sort of aid in moving the wreckage.

“Deal! Thank you, sir.” Sportacus smiled wide and extended his hand. Mr. Greencrop took it in a handshake, a grey eye twitched in the weathered face and Sportacus was mildly surprised how soft the hand was in his own despite age and hard labour.

“The sooner the better” the farmer said and cleared his throat, looking to the side. “I can have them here by three thirty early and bright tomorrow, get your ass here by then.”

That early? Sportacus was familiar with the need for an early start of the day in the farmer’s profession, but surely three thirty in the morning to start the deconstruction of the derelict was a bit too early. It was still in the small hours even by his own standards. “I’m not sure, does eight in the morning sound better, if it’s not too late that is?”

Mr. Greencrop silently sneered at the suggestion before complying. “Fine then.”

Sportacus watched the figure of the disgruntled farmer marsh away in the direction towards where he guessed their house was, and let out a sigh of relief. One of the weights off his shoulders now.

* * *

“Sportacus!” was the chorus that greeted him when he stuck his head through the open door of the Meanswell residence -to find the townschildren already crowding the entrance and lying in waiting for him. 

“Hi, kids,” he grinned and crossed the threshold. Looked past them. And saw the culinary chaos with a somewhat weary Ms. Busybody in the midst of it all. “Looks like you’ve been busy cooking,” he observed. The kitchen island and countertops were cluttered with dirtied kitchenwares and various ingredients.

“By the book,” the young girl supplied, grinning up at him.

The woman chastised, “and if you don’t come back here and follow that book to the letter then these pots will boil over.”

Stephanie made a panicked noise and dashed back to the stove with Pixel in tow.

Sportacus trailed after, his path somewhat hampered by the remaining children staying close by his side.

It was understandable. They had not seen him since yesterday after all, not since they'd seen him yell at Mr. Meanswell to remove them from the crash site and the fire...

The room was filled with the rich scent of seasoning and spices coming from the stove where Stephanie was now steering a pot while Pixel appeared to gauge the heat and progress, tapping away at his digital wristband as he did so.

“Now, will you all help cleaning and washing up before we eat?” Ms. Busybody coaxed them and the remaining children threw themselves with abandon into the task, most of all Stingy. She shifted her attention towards Sportacus once the tidying up was in motion. “Your uniform is in the bag by the door,” she told him in a more discrete voice.

“Thank you, Bessie,” he replied in kind, crossing his arms over his chest while he watched the children together join into what appeared to be a working song of their own. He chuckled, amused and amazed by their off the cuff musical theatrics. “It’s nice seeing them trying on new things like this together.”

“Yes, I do think we have a team of budding star chefs here. Don’t worry, they’ve been supervised,” Ms. Busybody said, having taken a seat by the window, “ _especially_ around the knives,” she added and gave Trixie a pointed look.

The pigtailed girl in question huffed and started to sweep the floor in big energetic movements, while muttering sourly for herself.

Sportacus hadn’t been particularly worried, until his ears now caught what sounded like _juggling_ from Trixie, and was glad that an adult had supervised them. Thankfully, the older woman seemed more capable of watching the children than Mr. Meanswell, who was easily overwhelmed when the group got together like this in his home. “So, what are you making?” he asked the room in general.

“Chanana Masala!” Ziggy informed excitedly.

“ _Chana_.” Stingy raised his head from his own task, a tired expression on his face as he corrected Ziggy, sounding far too old and weary than what his young age justified.

Ziggy nodded, seemingly oblivious to his friend’s chagrin. “Yeah, that! Stephanie said that we should make something hearted.”

Stingy now out right groaned. “ _Hearty_. It’s _hearty_.”

“And chicken peas!”

At this, the yellow clad boy didn’t even bother saying anything out loud, but gave the present adults a frustrated expression that said all too clearly, ‘ _do you see what I have to put up with here?_ ’ whilst gesturing at his youngest friend. A suppressed high pitched noise made it past his tightly closed lips.

Sportacus couldn’t help but cover his mouth and laugh silently at their antics, this was exactly what he needed, he realised.

He thought himself see Trixie give a nod and gesture something at Stephanie in the corner of his eye, but she was back to sweeping the floor when he turned to look at her, whistling their impromptu tune again.

Could have been his imagination.

“Well, that sounds great,” he declared.

“We’re almost done and Uncle Milford just came home from MayhemTown,” Stephanie proclaimed cheerily from where she was stirring the pot.

Sportacus raised an eyebrow. MayhemTown?

Ms. Busybody had said that the Mayor had been out of town on business, though, not giving the specifics of where.

“He’s helping to set the table,” the girl continued.

“Speaking of,” Ms. Busybody said. “ _Oh Milford!_ ” she called for the man in mention.

“Yes, Ms. Busybody?” the aforementioned man came through the door leading to the dining room, and spotted Sportacus standing in his kitchen, “oh, Sportacus, hello there.”

Sportacus nodded in acknowledgment.

“Would you, uh, like to help me with the chairs?” the man asked awkwardly.

“Of course.”

“Right.” The man visibly wrung his hands and went back the way he’d came. “Right…”

“Ziggy, I swear, you’re doing it on purpose!” Sportacus heard Stingy’s accusatory voice from behind him while exiting the kitchen, accompanied by the high pitched laughter that had to be Trixie. A fond smile grew on his face and he shook his head despite himself.

The smile faltered somewhat when he found that the dining table was already set and all chairs accounted for.

And Mr. Meanswell’s predicted question. “Did you sleep well last night? I know that the office resting room isn’t much, but...”

“It was fine,” Sportacus replied, not really answering the question itself. “Thank you, again.”

Mr. Meanswell cleared his throat and gave a stiff nod.

For all of being a guest in the man's household, he didn’t feel like an invited one right now.

“Bessie said that you were at a meeting,” Sportacus asked in turn, “in MayhemTown?”

“Ah, yes, that’s quite right.” The rotund man’s features drew into an uneasy expression at that, showing clear discomfort and averted his eyes to look at anything but Sportacus. The man had always had a poor poker face; whatever meeting he'd been at, it had clearly left him troubled. 

Sportacus did not get the opportunity to inquire further what it had entailed, or the reaction itself. 

“One piping hot saucepan coming through,” Pixel warned and Sportacus jumped out of the way and the room was quickly filled by people.

Stephanie corralled him in the direction of the end of the dining table. “You’ll have the seat of honour!”

“But that’s mine,” Stingy objected. Trixie gave him a stern glare and a soft “oh, right,” sounded from him under his breath.

They had put a lot of thought into this, it became clear.

Though, he wasn’t so sure if this get together were for his benefit, or their own peace of mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not admitting nor denying anything  
> -
> 
> I had to cut this chapter in two due to word count running away from me. Good thing is that the upcoming chapter is basically done and just need some editing!


	4. Chances and Risks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kids be playing "don't mention the war".
> 
> It's not very effective...

“Are you sure it’s good?” Stephanie asked for the umpteenth time and Sportacus smiled back to reassure her that it was.

He’d lost count of how many times he’d had to assure that their dish of choice was indeed very good and praise them for it, though he withheld the addition that it was very good -for a first try. That was _a lot_ of green pepper for a normally mild dish. The bowl with yoghurt was emptied and Mr Meanswell’s brow was practically glittering with perspiration.

Which was unrelated and had nothing to do with the otherwise uneasy behaviour of the man.

There was an elephant in the room and Sportacus was fairly sure that it was hovering just somewhere behind his right shoulder, seeing as that’s where Mr. Meanswell opted to look rather than meeting Sportacus’ eye.

The children weren’t that much better.

Sportacus could tell the difference between genuine blithefulness, and a charade by now.

And a rather poor one at that.

The conversation was too light-hearted, all things considered, and coming off as forced. A desperation to avoid any silence to seep in between and instead filling the air with what had happened in school during the day, the games they’d played during recess, and everything else they seemed to be able to come up with, all while shoulders were tight and a near manic gleam in some eyes when the chosen topics petered out.

Eventually and somewhat expectedly, Ziggy was the one to slip up after Stingy had in a too high pitched and tight voice declared how ‘ _lovely the weather had been today_ ’ of all things.

“It’s just so super weird,” the boy said while pushing around a few remaining chickpeas from the stew on his plate. “The sky looks empty, and Ro-.”

As one, a palpable tension ran through the other young table guests. “Don’t mention the ship or the _R word_ ,” Pixel nudged Ziggy to stop and warned in a low whisper at him, “not in front of Sportacus. Remember?”

The R-word? Oh… _Oh_.

“Kids, are you worried about talking about Robbie and my airship with me?” he asked them, resting his crossed arms atop the table, aiming to keep his voice light and disarming.

And just like that, the façade slipped off their faces, sharing uneasy glances between themselves.

Stephanie lowered her head and said too timidly, “we thought that you might be upset…”

Because they were?

Had they had time to process what had happened yesterday with their families, he wondered. Had they even been offered the option at all?

Sportacus said, “it’s okay to talk about it.” Even if he himself didn’t want to, there was clearly a need for it.

“Well, yeah,” Trixie declared, but faltered quickly, “it’s just, uhm…”

“You were angry,” Stephanie said where her friend’s voice ended.

He’d never before felt so disappointed in himself.

Of course. They’d never seen that side of him before and he could only imagine how jarring it must’ve been for them, to be dismissed and ushered away for the first time like that. “I wasn’t angry,” he said, trying to reassure them that they were in no way in the wrong, adding, “not at any of you.” No, not at the children, and hopefully he would never be, but at the gawkers, at the supposedly grownups. He’d been frustrated with the lack of… At his own powerlessness, he supposed. And furious at Robbie -and at he himself equally so.

And frightened.

But that was not something he would be, could be, able to explain to them.

However, Ziggy took that choice from him, forever speaking his mind, for better or worse. “It was scary.” His hands twisting the red fabric of his makeshift cape he always donned, the hero cape of who he wanted to grow up into; someone like Sportacus.

Their first instinct had been to help Sportacus, despite how frightening the situation was. As they always had.

So why had this been so different for them now?

Because they had as well always come out on top, no matter the many close calls.

And this time could’ve been so, so, much worse.

Sportacus smiled softly and replied in an equal so voice, “it was scary, Ziggy.” To acknowledge the boy’s feelings, all of the childrens’, if their small sombre faces were to judge by. “Admitting that is brave in itself. It’s all okay.”

His words did not seem to fall on good ground.

Stingy objected, “but, but what about you, and your ship, and, and, agh!” Unable to find the words, the boy resorted to flap his hands in a gesture that could mean everything and anything.

“All your gadgets, and sport equipment,” Pixel filled in. “Even your backpack is gone.”

“I didn’t always have those,” he told them truthfully. “And, just like you don’t need toys to be able to play, I don’t need all those things to be a hero. What matters is that we’re all okay, really. You know,” he chanced to look over towards Ms. Busybody who had been sitting silently by at her end of the table for the whole duration of the dinner, “it’s alright to not be alright,” echoing her own words she’d used on him, feeling every part of the hypocrite that he was. Though, he could try to dare himself to believe in it. Even if only for their sake, then so be it. “And you don’t ever have to feel like you can’t talk about things around or with me,” he finished.

“Still sucks that Robbie got away with it,” Stingy groused. “It’s not fair!”

“Yeah! That good for nothing creep!” Trixie raised her voice in anger. “The next time I see him I’m going to give him something to be sorry about!”

“Yeah, real sorry!” Ziggy chimed in.

This was quickly taking a turn that Sportacus didn’t like. “Kids,” he tried to talk over the upset children and nip the arguing in its bud, “please, don’t go after Robbie.”

They gave him owlish disbelieving looks.

“It’s not worth it, and it’s not going to make you feel better. And not me either.” Last thing he wanted for them was to enact some type of revenge in _his_ name.

The children looked like they were to object, and loudly so.

“How many times have Robbie tried to send me away? Or stop you from playing?” he asked before they could start.

A somewhat self-explanatory question, as Stephanie replied, “too many times.”

“Exactly.” As much as he hated to say it out loud and admit to it, this was the truth.

Pixel said, seemingly catching on to Sportacus’ cryptic reply, if albeit in his own way, “oh, I get it. You mean like probability theory!”

A bit more advancedly put than he’d been planning on explaining, but he nodded in agreement.

“What?” Trixie asked, her cheeks still heated and brow drawn into a scowl.

“Probability of events,” the techie continued. “Like, a quantity whose value unless specified is random and has a probability distribution for it. But the distribution here being an unknown variable.”

“In _normal_ English, please,” Stingy said, to which Pixel only looked frustrated in turn.

Sportacus filled in, trying to get back on the initial track, “it’s like the roll of a dice, Stingy. You have one chance in six to get the number you want. Or like buying lottery tickets. The more tickets you buy, the bigger the chances are that you will win.” Okay, maybe he shouldn’t use hazard games and betting as examples, he realised. Nevertheless, he continued to finish up his explanation. “Robbie succeeding is a bit like that.”

And being just as surprised about it as the rest of them.

“So…” Stephanie tried to make sense of it. “Are you saying that Robbie got lucky, because he’s done it enough times for it to finally happen?”

“Yes,” he agreed, smiling at her understanding.

“Well, why didn’t you just say so!” Trixie complained loudly and waved her arms.

“Okay, that’s quite enough of the excitement, don’t you think?” Ms. Busybody voiced, one of the two other present adults at last speaking up. “And I think it’s getting late, don’t you think so, too, Milford?”

“Oh, uh, yes, I suppose so,” Mr. Meanswell jolted in his seat, seeming surprised to be addressed. “It _is_ getting late, maybe we should, uh, wrap this up. Thank you children this was very nice of you to put together for Sportacus. But I think it’s time for your curfews and bedtimes soon?”

“But we’re not done!” Stephanie objected. “Uncle, don’t you remember?”

Sportacus gave her an inquiring look. What more had they planned for him?

“I got this, I got this,” Ziggy said and jumped out of his chair and ran out of the room.

“Kids?” Sportacus asked when the youngest boy came back dragging bags behind him.

“We decided to get you some necessary stuff after school, seeing as you probably need it,” Pixel explained. 

A care package?

If a couple of hefty plastic shopping bags could be described as such.

Feeling dumbstruck, he accepted the first of the bags and held it in his hands, at loss for words.

For a bit too long, seeing as the children saw it as a bad sign.

“I knew this was a bad idea, guys,” Trixie voiced.

“No, it’s alright,” Sportacus said. “This is… _Wow!_ I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

Stephanie’s face brightened and Ziggy was bouncing on his feet by Sportacus’ side, chanting “open them, open them.” As if it was Christmas Eve.

Sportacus looked over to Ms. Busybody again, giving her a pointed look of his own.

“I didn’t have anything to do with this” she said in response, seeming far too pleased. “This was very thoughtful of you,” she addressed the children.

It was very thoughtful of them.

A bit too thoughtful, seeing as the bags contained shirts, wind cheaters, and toiletries and hygienic articles he doubted that children of their age would consider.

Especially the shaving razors!

Absently, he found himself stroking his chin, feeling the beginning of stubble not yet visible to the naked eye. “How did you get these?” Where had they gotten the money to purchase all of this even?

Humbling as it was, he couldn’t help but worry.

“Yeah, I had to get dad to buy those,” Trixie complained, “the clerk wouldn’t sell to us for some stupid reason.”

He could imagine why.

“Have you ever considered a goatee, though?” she asked. “I think it would look wicked with your ‘stache.”

Sportacus laughed out loud. No, that was not going to happen anytime soon.

“C’mon, there’s more, open _my_ , I mean _our_ bag,” Stingy coaxed and forced the other shopping bag Ziggy had brought in onto Sportacus.

Well.

There was humbling, and then there was humiliating.

Sportacus had seen the contents within, recognised them for what they were and had closed the bag just as quickly as it registered. He could feel his face heat up, and he had to clear his throat.

“Mum says that clean underwear is very important,” Ziggy proclaimed.

Indeed, it was. It was just… That receiving a bag containing packages of socks and _underwear_ from the townschildren was _not_ where he’d thought he’d ever wind up!

Ever!

Trixie gave a wolf’s grin. “You’re blushing!”

Considering how his ears were burning under his hat, yes, he was visibly so.

“I guess I am,” he said and laughed at his own expense. “This is very… Thank you, kids.”

“Aww, you’re welcome, Sportacus,” Ziggy said and latched onto his side in a hug.

Sportacus kept his breathing even. He’d already had one emotional breakdown today. He was by no means ready for a second one, and especially not in front of the children. Though, he felt his eyes mist at the generosity that the townschildren, _his friends_ , had extended towards him and he quickly wiped his eyes before wrapping an arm around Ziggy to give his shoulder a squeeze and ruffle his hair.

“Move over, Ziggy, it’s _my_ turn,” he heard Stingy before the other boy came over and shortly after followed by the rest of them.

There wasn’t enough of him to go around and extend, he felt. To give back in return as the children formed a dogpile on top of him and he spotted both Ms. Busybody and Mr. Meanswell smile blithely at him from where they were seated.

“Do I get to stop pretending that I like the food now?” Stingy’s voice came muffled from Sportacus’ neck. “It’s too spicy.” Gesturing blindly towards where his plate was.

“Weak,” Trixie leered in response from her side of Sportacus, raising her head and grinning sharply.

The boy gasped in indignation. “ _Excuse_ _you_?”

“You heard me. You’re weak,” she laughed.

Sportacus guffawed. He had a hunch of who was responsible for the green peppers.

* * *

Standing by the front steps of the Meanswell residence with arms now occupied by the gifts and the bag containing his cleaned uniform slung over his shoulder, Sportacus had seen the children leave before their curfew one after the other.

He’d by Ms. Busybody’s request waited behind for her. Who now stood in the doorway and was giving Mr. Meanswell a kiss on the cheek and wishing him a good night.

Sportacus rolled his eyes as he heard the older man fluster and stutter in an awkward farewell of his own, and spotting Stephanie wave at him from her window he waved back, smiling up at her before he at last departed with the older woman.

“I know it’s a bit of a detour for you, but would you mind walking a lady home?” Ms. Busybody asked once they’d put some distance between themselves and the house. Her tone was light, but her eyes were serious as she spoke. There was something on her mind, he could tell.

“I would not mind,” and offered his arm with a wink, to which she chortled.

Maybe it was for the better that Ms. Busybody had taken his arm, as he soon felt as if it was she who was the one keeping him upright. He truly was exhausted. Today had been an emotional roller coaster, to say the least.

There was also the nagging feeling that he’d forgotten about something.

“I forgot to ask Milford about the spare uniform!” he said aloud when it hit him and it was too late.

“Good thing I did then,” Ms. Busybody replied. “He doesn’t know either, but he promised he’d look into it.”

Sportacus drew his face into a slight frown. It hadn’t been Mr. Meanswell after all? Then who?

Could it be…?

No. And he dismissed the idea before it got to take hold proper.

“By the way,” the woman said, “it was the childrens’ parents responsible for their little shopping trip.”

That was a bit more reassuring. He’d have to remember to give Trixie’s father his thanks for the shaving kit, and the other parents as well...

He was not going to be able to look Mrs. Zweets in the eye for some time if she was the one to have picked out the underwear for him.

“The thought was nice. They’re good kids.”

Ms. Busybody concurred then spoke again, “so, did you run into old Greencrop?”

“I did,” he confirmed, “it went rather well.” She’d been right to call the elder prickly, but it hadn’t been nowhere near as bad as she’d made it out to be.

“Is that so?” she inquired.

“He knew someone that’d be interested in buying the metals for recycling, and offered to contact them for me to help remove the debris off his field tomorrow.”

She remained silent for a while, seeming to take in the information. “Be wary, Sportacus,” she said eventually, “he is rarely _this_ forthcoming.”

“He did want a share to compensate for the property damages and water pipes.” It was only fair, he thought.

“And there’s his angle, dear. I’ll have you know that he has agricultural insurance that already ought to cover the damages. And,” she lowered her voice, the true talebearing side of her shining through, “I’ve also heard that he’s been planning on switching out those pipes for some time now. You’re most likely doing _him_ a favour.”

“Then it’s mutual, I guess,” he replied.

“Well, I’m glad that _that_ is getting sorted at least, and some money in your pocket won’t hurt for that matter either… Would you look at that, it seems like this is my stop, thank you, Sportacus.”

The woman let go but made no further move towards the gate of her front garden. She’d wanted him alone for a reason, and not just to discuss his plans for tomorrow, that much he had gathered.

Ms. Busybody spoke up, “I was thinking, about what you and Pixel said about probability,” and left the sentence hanging for Sportacus to pick up.

“Yes?”

“Do you truly believe that Robbie merely got a lucky break?”

Intertwined with Sportacus’ own variables of risk of failure. Chances didn’t always work in your favour; theoretically, for every time that Sportacus succeeded, the risk of failing increased in turn. If one were to focus solely on the figures, that is. “I’d like to believe so, yes.”

She hummed, not sounding like she agreed with his reply all that much. “And what if something like this were to happen again soon, I wonder. What are the chances of other things happening in the future? We’ve been immensely lucky even to have you.” She added, wistfully, “though, the Provincial Board likes to believe otherwise,” a sigh, “I’m not supposed to talk about it outside of the office walls, but I’m sure you’ve already noticed Milford’s less than stellar behaviour for this evening, and you deserve to know.”

He had indeed noticed, but what was she on about, what did he need to know? And what did the province have to do with _him_? “Bessie,” he asked, “what was Milford really doing in MayhemTown?”

Ms. Busybody made a face, as if tasting something foul on her tongue before answering, “lobbying for restoring our emergency services that doesn’t have your name printed on it as a solution.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look around you,” Ms. Busybody gestured, speaking slow and clear for him, “when was the last time you saw an emergency vehicle pass by LazyTown before yesterday? Or that we’ve had a regular fire drill, or seen a district nurse in their office? Or the childrens’ parents being involved in their safety and wellbeing? It’s all come to depend on you, _by design_ , and we’re too complacent because we put all our trust in you.”

…What? He heard her, but could not quite comprehend.

“This is entirely on us. As I’ve said; this town owes you. _A lot_.” At the confusion or more like disbelief he still displayed, she elaborated, “we’ve winded up building our public safety and emergency services around you at its very centre. You’re a hero, a lucky addition, for when our safety response might fail. But not _this_. You were never supposed to _be_ our emergency services. Yesterday was a rude awakening for us all, I think.”

“But I, why…” He tried to make sense of it. He knew about the fire brigade already and that his presence had played a part in deciding where it should be stationed between the two neighbouring towns, but not to _this_ extent! “Why would they do that?”

“It all comes down to money,” she sighed tiredly. “You’re good at what you do, incredibly good, and you don’t charge us for it. Though, you really should.”

“That’s not why I do it,” he objected.

“I know, dear,” she placated him, “I know. Still, putting everything on you like this is unjust. And it’s…”

“Lazy?”

Ms. Busybody chuckled weakly. “That too.” She reached forward to grasp his bandaged arm again, applying just enough pressure to seem reassuring. “I want you to know that you can count on us in the future, this can’t continue.”

He willed himself to speak up again, drawing back and out of her hold. “Thank you, for telling me.”

The smile she gave him was watery. “Good night, Sportacus.”

* * *

Walking the older woman home had indeed been a detour, not that it mattered that much anymore as he now found himself in need of working out the deeply unsettling news both in mind and body. The late hour might be odd, but the sight of him free running and seeming aimlessly running laps was not one.

So many things were starting to fall into place for him that he should have realised much earlier on if he’d actually paid due attention to his surroundings.

He couldn’t even blame it on being used to bigger cities or _hotspots_ like MayhemTown where sadly the sight of flashing lights of emergency vehicles was a too common one.

It would be nothing but empty excuses, for not noticing the town’s complete blind conviction in that they’d always have someone to come to their rescue. The delusion of their invincibility having taken the edge off and ultimately putting the inhabitants in greater danger if true disaster were to strike.

The conviction that _Sportacus_ was invincible and that he’d always be around. That he’d always be there in LazyTown at their beck and call.

The town was left completely and utterly vulnerable by conscious negligence.

That explained Mr. Meanswell’s behaviour. Guilt.

Anger wasn’t quite the word Sportacus was looking for to identify his feelings. Something closer to being let down perhaps. Taken for granted.

Used.

LazyTown was still lazy, just, not in the way that he’d thought it could. But in a way that was so much worse.

Drifting off to sleep later in the narrow bed, a stray thought graced him and made itself known.

His crystal hadn’t gone off once during the whole day.

Because of the townschildren having been under supervision of capable adults?

Because Robbie seemed to have gone into hiding?

He turned onto his side and closed his eyes. He’d rather not think about it.

_…But what if?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kids faceless families be like, hey maybe we should do something nice for the guy who's always looking out for our kids.  
> -
> 
> You wanted hugs, you got your hugs...
> 
> Ofc I then had to ruin the mood -(sorry, except not really)
> 
> And am I dancing around certain subjects and being annoyingly vague about other ones? Yes, yes I am.


	5. Demolition Duo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Healthy mix of headcanon and meta I'd say.

A slip of the tongue was all it took.

He’d only meant to be supportive of the girl’s statement that she’d started to feel at place in town. That it was starting to feel like home.

“Will you stay?” The girl, Stephanie, looked up at him with wide brown eyes, an expectant expression on her small face under the pink straight cut bangs.

“ _Stay_?” he echoed. “Eehh…” Flummoxed, Sportacus looked around himself. Seeing the excited faces of the townschildren that had come to gather around him, besides themselves by the prospect of a new playmate. “I… Uhm…”

“Will you? Huh?” a small boy, no more than six years old he gathered, asked with a loud nasal voice that penetrated the enthusiastic chorus of his older peers.

Even the adults, the woman he’d helped out of the chest high hole someone had dug and left open in the pavement and the Mayor himself of the town, both looked at him with keen interest.

Sportacus had been there for only a handful of minutes, in which true, he’d done no less than three saves, however nothing too serious thankfully. Yet, he’d never been asked to stay, not on such short notice, and never with this much fervour. They did not know him, _he_ did not know these people that lived here.

Stephanie repeated the question, pleading, “will you?”

Well…

LazyTown seemed like a nice enough place and in the need of his help to get back up on its feet.

He lowered his gaze back to the girl that had called for him in the first place. He grinned. “I think I will.”

Until he was needed elsewhere.

* * *

After a fruit salad mix and a quick session of warmups and stretches on the lawn outside the town hall he was ready to set out to meet up with Mr. Greencrop and whoever he’d called in to help remove the airship.

Not many people were out just yet, he did however run across Trixie and Stingy making their way to school and he shouted a cheery greeting in passing, receiving a positive if somewhat drowsy reply in return from them.

Here was to hoping that they’d stay out of trouble until he was back.

Once he made it to the outskirt of the town did he see the industrial trucks, hoisting cranes. And the sheer amount of people.

He stopped in his tracks, taking in the display in the distance. The envelope was completely stripped of any remnants of the canvas. The framework now in full view and a myriad of people crowding around the derelict, gutting it and picking it clean much like ants on a carcass. A morbid comparison, but it felt all too fitting non the less. Sparks were flying where people were using power tools to saw off beams and separating the gondola from the envelope itself.

How long had they been at it, he asked himself. Had they started without him at three thirty as Mr. Greencrop had first suggested? With that question in mind he got back in motion.

Sportacus ran the last stretch, just in time as the gondola crashed down onto the ground, rocking side from side until it slowly settled.

“Hey!” Sportacus called attention to himself when he saw a group descend on the gondola.

The people closest to him paused their work and someone whistled loudly, loud enough that the group as a whole stopped and it became eerily quiet.

Two burly men walked across the field and approached him. Besides the dark attire and reflective vests everyone seemed to be donned in, there was a striking resemblance between the two the closer they got to Sportacus; both dark and square faced with prominent stubble, similar broad noses looking like they’d taken a hit too many in the same exact spot. The only thing that truly set the two men apart were the colour of their hard hats. One green and one red. Their eyes seemed to size him up and he felt himself almost dwarf in comparison to their large frames when they came to stand before him and block his view of the wreckage. They had some weight to them, and seemed to know how to use that to their advantage as well.

“Can we help you with something?” The one closest to him now, the one sporting the green hat, asked Sportacus and crossed bulky arms over his chest. “Otherwise we’ll have to ask you to step back, this is a demolition site.”

“Hi, yes,” Sportacus answered and tried to smile disarmingly. “That is my ship.” It sounded childish and somewhat possessive to his own ears. But it was still true.

The man wearing the red hat seemed to relax and the broad jaw unclench. “Oh, _you’re_ Number Ten?”

“That’s me,” grateful that the hostility in the air dissipated as soon as they recognised that he wasn’t a trespasser, “but call me Sportacus, please.”

“Should have figured from the looks of you.” The green hat smiled broadly down at him. “Sorry about that, names Gibs, and this here is my brother Reeds,” tilting his head to the other at that. “And before you ask, yes, we’re twins. And yes, _I’m_ the handsome one.” Thus confirming Sportacus suspicion of the close blood relation between the two men. “We’re the supervisors. Now that presentations are over. How may we help you?” he repeated the question, though this time differently worded and much comelier towards Sportacus.

“Well, actually… I was expecting to meet Mr. Greencrop,” Sportacus said. In the large group of people he failed to spot the churlish farmer and who was yet to make himself known. “The owner of these lands, the one who called you?” he explained further. “I was supposed to meet him.”

“Dunno about that,” the one called Reeds replied. “HQ handles the orders and paperwork. We haven’t seen anyone come here, besides you. We just go where we’re told to and get the job done.” The burly siblings shared meaning glances. “We got some pencil pusher here from the buyer’s office, though, if you want to speak business with them.”

Sportacus asked, “wait, so, _you’re_ not the buyers?”

“Thought it was kinda obvious. Nah, we’re subcontractors,” said Reeds bluntly. “Though, this mountain _is_ going to a local recycling business, so don’t you worry. Wait around and their guy should show his face any second, he’s been hounding our men since we got here like thirty minutes ago.”

They’d only been at it for thirty minutes?! “Thirty minutes?” he echoed, sounding disbelieving. True, there was a lot of people in motion and that now seemed anxious to return to their tasks. But, surely, he must have misheard them.

“Yep, we’re the best and fastest in this bizz.” Pride coloured Reeds voice. “We get lots of gigs in this area.”

Gibs snorted. “I think it was only last month we were here last.”

“Yeah, as I said, this isn’t exactly our first rodeo in LazyTown,” Reeds said and nodded.

“Or our second.”

“Or even tenth.” To which the twins in front of him now grinned wide.

Sportacus wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. “Excuse me?”

“Think the last time I was here we set up and then took apart a castle,” Gibs mused and scratched his stubbled chin. “That’s still up there with the top three weirdest gigs.”

“Castle?” Reeds said. “Right, you missed the Pyramid, man. Nearly pulled a hamstring on that one. MayhemTown is pretty vanilla in comparison to the commissions we get here.”

Castle?

Pyramid?

Oh.

His revelation was proven true when Gibs continued, “that Robbie Rotten is probably one of our biggest clients by now. Dunno how he can afford going on like this, especially paying those inconvenient-hours supplements for when he wants us here.”

Sportacus was starting to feel inclined to believe so, though, hiring a crew like this had to cost a _fortune_.

“Gotta hand it to that complete whack job; he’s very committed,” Gibs continued.

Reeds chuckled, “the tenacious SOB doesn’t know when to quit, you mean?”

Sportacus felt his face contort in distain. That was completely uncalled for.

“Though it seems to finally have paid off,” Reeds said, and upon seeing Sportacus pinched expression, added, “no offense.”

Well, _now_ he was offended for two reasons.

“Keep talking like that about your clients and you won’t see much work around here if they catch you!” someone barked.

A bright orange hardhat now caught Sportacus’ eye and a surprisingly tall slim figure among the workers now emerged out of the group to join them with long strides.

“And here’s the _representative_ ,” Gibs said under his breath, enunciating the word like he meant something different, and far ruder.

The representative was a gangly man with reddish blond hair sticking out in tufts from under the orange hardhat and a long pale freckled face with flushed cheeks and bright eyes shining with irritation.

He didn’t look like he belonged with the large group. Physique aside, he was wearing what had once been a rather nice pair of dress shoes now covered in mud and a tan suit under the reflexive vest, brandishing a clipboard that he held in a white knuckled grip between his hands.

“Easy, man. What’s it to _you_ anyway?” said Gibs. “You haven't met the weirdo.”

The representative bared teeth.

This... Did not look like it was heading anywhere good.

Sportacus made the decision to step in between, metaphorically and physically, before the man would get the idea to launch. To save the gangly man from hurting himself if anything. “Excuse me?” he said, using the same tone and expression he’d applied earlier with the supervisors. “I’m Sportacus, I believe I’m your client?”

At the word _client_ , the man blinked and seemed to finally acknowledge Sportacus’ presence and quickly schooled his expression -and not making a good job out of it as his face twitched in aggravation.

“Okay, I’m out of here, I got better things to do,” Gibs muttered darkly and backed away.

Reeds gave Sportacus a pitying look for leaving him with the still quietly seething man. “You need something just say the word.”

“If you could open the side door for the living quarters, then I’d appreciate it a lot.” Sportacus smiled.“There are some things I’d like to have a look at and take out if possible before you take it apart.”

“Sure thing.” Reeds gave him a thumbs up and then departed with his twin brother to talk with the group waiting by the gondola.

The sound of a revving power tool and the high screech of metal being cut into filled the air as Sportacus turned his full attention back to the buyer’s representative.

“Are you alright?” he asked the man. That had been quite the strong reaction.

The man cleared his throat. “I’m more than alright.” His gaze was flitting, not quite meeting Sportacus’ own. The man was far from alright, but Sportacus decided not to push it. “Pardon me. You’re the pilot, yes?” he spoke up again.

He gave a positive. “That's right. But I was expecting someone else, to be honest,” Sportacus answered. “A Mr. Greencrop?”

The representative furrowed his brow and then seemed to jolt in place. “Oh, uhm, _him_. He could not make it and told us to wait around for you,” he replied hurriedly.

Sportacus raised a brow. Clearly they had not had that much of an interest to wait for Sportacus’ presence. “Did he say anything else?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He could not make it and I’m not in a position to know the details,” he deflected. “I’m here to oversee the retrieval and the monetary transaction. Usually we don’t operate like this, but with a large order such as this we felt it necessary. Once the scrap has been sorted and weighted in you’ll to receive payment.”

Sportacus nodded along. That seemed easy enough, almost too easy.

“Do I need to sign any papers?” he inquired.

“I can arrange some,” the representative replied.

“Hey, Sportacus! Door’s open! Well, we made a door, really!”

He spotted something bright green in his peripheral vision that he guessed was Gibs calling his attention to him.

“That sounds good,” Sportacus said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll…” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the wreckage.

“Yes, yes, of course.” The man waved the clipboard dismissively at him.

* * *

Graciously accepting a pair of protective gloves, Sportacus saw the deconstruction workers move onto the envelope again while he entered the gondola.

Or what was left of it.

He didn’t know what was worse. How different it looked. Or that he could still recognise it.

There was a sense of wrongness surrounding the whole experience, a clenching at his core and he wished to be anywhere else that very moment, than here.

The wood panelling of the floor had burnt up all the way down to the joists, and exposing the underlying layer of melted circuitry and sensors. Balancing one step at the time until he reached the platform in the middle he stopped to survey his surroundings. Everything was covered in a layer of soot. Above him the pole had partly fallen out and was sticking out in a thirty degree angle. Sportacus wasn’t sure if it was a result of the initial accident, or the impact from the gondola being separated from the envelop, but he made a mental note to avoid being directly under it, if it were to fall out completely. As for the walls and their contents… The department for his bed was a black halo and much so the windowpanes where he’d kept his books and his wardrobe. The table of his kitchenette had dislodged and the contents themselves were nothing but broken glass and black clumps of coals. None of the sports equipment seemed to have made it either.

Had he expected anything else, really?

He’d _known_ all this before he’d stepped inside. But he supposed that, despite all reason, he’d held onto a tiny hope that there would be _something_ to salvage.

_Anything_.

He closed his eyes and breathed through it, trying to centre himself.

There was nothing in here that he couldn’t make it without. There were more books to read, he didn’t need all those sports equipment and he could always get new ones, he reminded himself.

 _Those_ he could replace.

These walls themselves however, the voice that had given him the illusion of companionship…

This was as close to a goodbye he’d get, he supposed.

“Shouldn’t you wear a protective helmet in here? It doesn’t look that safe.”

Sportacus blinked his eyes open, not knowing how long he’d stood still in place, or for how long the representative had been silently watching him before speaking.

“And you should not be in here,” Sportacus replied, instantly kicking himself mentally. That wasn’t how he’d meant it to sound like. Too brusque for starters, and downright hostile. He turned towards the opening they’d cut though the wall just in time to see the man flinch in response. Seeming to understand that he’d overstepped and imposed on a private moment. “It’s not safe for you either,” he tried to smooth over his earlier lapse in composure.

The man nodded, chewing on his lower lip. Seeming like an entirely different person than the one he'd left outside, Sportacus noted. Now that he’d had time to calm down perhaps, or getting out of the eye of the crew and subcontractors. Sportacus figured that he was younger than him, however not by how much, the other’s age being hard for him to pin down exactly. At least a decade, he hazarded. “You were taking some time and they wanted to know how long you were going to be in here, or if you needed any help.”

Sportacus shook his head. “I won’t be much longer. Why are you _really_ here?”

“Oh, uh, yes, see, as I said, I’m usually working in the main office and take the orders rolling in. I’m never on ‘ _the floor_ ’ so to speak, but with a big order such as this they wanted someone from…”

“You’ve said that, yes,” Sportacus hummed. This could come across as rude and he hoped that the representative’s temper wouldn’t flare up again. “You’re new at your job?”

Thankfully, it didn’t, instead he seemed almost _relieved_. The man’s shoulders sagged and he smiled sheepishly. “It’s that obvious, is it?”

He smiled back. “Just a little bit.” And pinched his gloved index finger and thumb before him in good humour. “So?”

“I was curious. And the Demolition Duo out there don’t like me…”

Now _that_ he did believe.

The man braved to step inside, just enough that he still could brace himself with a hand against the wall. “You said that you were looking for something? What is it?”

“The black box,” he answered and deemed it about prime time that he did start extracting the components as planned and then let the crew outside continue with their work.

“Black box? Good luck finding that in all this black… Uh…”

The man seemed to realise the tactlessness of the comment and visibly cringed at his own words.

Sportacus let it slide. It was not any worse than Reeds words outside after all.

“Actually, it’s red-orange, so it should not be that hard.” And he already knew its general locations, starting with the panel above the bed.

“ _Red_? Then why do they call it black?”

He shrugged and came to stand directly below his first objective. “I’ve always wondered the same. And it’s not really a box. It’s a flight recorder in two pieces.”

“Will it… Will it tell you where or why the fire started?”

The overall reason for the fire was a long story that he’d let carry on for years against his better judgement. The more immediate direct reason was currently within the navigation port in the control box by the front in the helm, bearing the form of a blue plug with malware that Robbie had smuggled onboard and inserted. “Does it really matter?”

“I thought it did? Seeing as you’re looking for a not black black box,” the man pointed out.

Fair. Though, that was not the reason why he sought out the recorder. There were things on it that were not meant for the general human population.

It took him three high jumps before he managed to get the panel open and extract the cylinder of the data recorder in international orange.

Step one, accomplished.

The other part, the sound recorder, was directly above the pilot’s seat up in the helm.

The representative watched him with idle interest as Sportacus went about a similar pattern of jump and whack the ceiling until something gives.

Step two, also accomplished.

There. That was that. Nothing more for him here.

Nothing more...

Yet he lingered, cradling the second cylinder in his arms and staring at the pod by his feet.

One last goodbye, he supposed. He owed him that much.

Putting the recorder under his arm he squatted down. Smearing the soot of the smooth metallic surface, he looked at what was left of an etching on the left side of the smaller aircraft.

A sports elf, one of his forerunners. Frozen in pose like a dancer, the end tails of their scarf drawn in a graceful arch, the lengths far exaggerated than what he recalled they’d been in reality…

He raised his gaze, contemplating. The pilot’s seat was burnt out but the FlyPod itself, his _Skutla_ as he'd nicknamed it for himself, was relatively intact from what he could see.

“You got all you wanted?”

“Yes, no, wait,” Sportacus spluttered, coming out of his ruminations. “I’d like to save this as well.”

“The _pilot seat_?”

“Not quite,” he replied. It was worth a try.

The mechanism to release the FlyPod would most likely, like everything else, be broken. He located the hand lever for the release mechanism and gave it an experimental tug. The catch opened up partly, revealing yet untarnished silver. Smiling, he gave the mechanism a well-aimed kick and the aircraft dropped through the helm and onto the ground below with a thud.

“ _Now_ I’m done,” he declared, grinning wide.

“Well, good, I’ll let them know they can move onto this part and-”

A large tremor went through the gondola, accompanied by an alarming metallic groan he could feel in his bones.

His crystal flashed within the protective casing of his insignia. “Someone’s in trouble.”

Whatever it was, it was coming from outside.

“Here, hold this, please!” Sportacus pushed the cylindrical containers onto the representative and the poor man nearly toppled over by the force and sheer weight of them, and threw himself out the opening.

The whole structure of the rudders were giving way, just as he'd feared.

People had started to scatter, climbing down quickly and running in different directions away from the wreckage.

“Shit,” he heard one of the twins swear, not sure which of them and frankly did not care when he spotted the lone worker dangling from an outcropping beam, “he’s not gonna make it.”

And to make it worse.

He saw as well how the structure was slowly but surely starting to tilt further in a sideway collapse -and that a large portion of the crew were in its direct path.

Sportacus would have to act quickly and started to look around himself for ropes, and came up empty handed.

He looked at his bracers. There were still some gadgets on his person to utilise. His mind settled and he took off sprinting.

“Where are you going?!” someone shouted behind him.

Still running towards the rudders, against the stream, Sportacus raised his arm and took aim and discharged the grapnel.

The S insignia tied successfully around one of the beams he calculated would give him enough leverage. Enough momentum to jump and swing by the thin line still attached to his arm in an arch and catch the worker as they lost their grip and started plummeting. Enough to drop them on the opposite side and then turn his own attention back to the Mikado that was the tilting mountain of trusses, and tried to keep it away from the remaining crew.

Digging his heels into the ground the best he could but still slipping forward, Sportacus clenched his teeth and grunted as the thin line dug through the gloves and into the palm of his hands, trying to keep the envelope standing until everyone had made it a safe distance away.

Just a few more seconds.

His feet were slipping.

He made a miscalculation and heaved backwards, too forcefully. The point of gravity shifted and with that the trajectory of the whole structure.

Towards himself, who was still tied to it.

This was going to hurt.

If he were lucky, that was. 

Instinctively, he dove. And everything became dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long live Skutla.  
> Also FlyPod is a dumb name made even dumber that it took me weeks (to muster up the energy for starters) to find source.


	6. Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read tags

Hadn’t he been here before somehow?

Slowly, Sportacus recovered his faculties and as the fog in his head subsided he could make out the faint noise of people screaming his name, muffled by the barrier of metal surrounding him and making it sound distant and distorted.

He really wished he could say that this was the first time something like this had happened to him.

As it would have it, he and some of the higher brick walls running through LazyTown had come to know eachother on an _intimate_ level these past years.

On the other hand, all things considered, this was an interesting step up in routine. To say the least.

Of all the ways this could’ve gone awry this sure did beat ‘ _I ate a sugar apple and was then left to die by my villain for the umpteenth time because I keep hoping this time will somehow be different_ ’.

A more befitting heroic ending for his kind, than the naïve and lovelorn fool he’d turned into the further it had spiralled.

Wow. Okay, where had all of that come from?

There was a time and place for those kinds of hazed introspective thoughts, and this was neither of those.

What he _should_ be doing was check himself and figure his way out.

He felt every part of being in a tumble, aches all over but no acute pains. That was a promising start. He could _feel_.

The crystal had ceased to audibly warn of the danger sometime after the collapse, he gathered. However, its casing was now instead glowing in a red regular pulse -and doing him absolutely no favours whatsoever in helping him out of this particular situation he’d found himself in. No more than being a modest torch that was. Showing him just how little space there was in the small pocket he by nothing short of a miracle was curled up in.

Unharmed, but trapped. The tight space he laid in did not give him much wriggling room, but if he could perhaps manoeuvre enough to lie on his back he could push the ‘ _lid_ ’ over him upwards.

 _If_ turned out to be a negative.

A problem presented itself; the grapnel he’d used. The grappling line which Sportacus was still very much attached to, to be precise. And in extension his right arm was now pinned across his chest in an awkward angle. The line drawn taut and not enough room for him to reach and remove the bracer, much less snap it off. It was _made_ to hold for him after all.

All the strength to move mountains, to no use if he could not get enough leverage to apply it. Basic physics.

Which didn’t stop him from tug and writhe fruitlessly until beads of sweat were running through the film of dust on his too hot skin. Or was that just him running out of air?

The notion of the severity of the situation was quickly becoming a stark reality, and was starting to feel less and less of a heroic ending at all.

Trapped in the dark, alone, and-

His crystal gave off a chirrup as to cement the hot iron skewer of fear trying to bloom into panic. His breath hitched.

This was _not_ how he wanted to go out. He’d take the damn sugar apple and ignorant oblivion than _this_!

He’d eat it out of Robbie’s own hand!

Sportacus had heard of it, how in moments of true peril life would flash before one’s eyes. He still wasn’t so sure about that, but for a fleeting moment, he thought of all the people he’d come to know. The townspeople that had opened their arms to him. Broad smiles and merriment, escapades initiated by fanciful children and fuelled on by more so chimerical tricksters. How he wanted to see them again, be part of it all more than anything.

One last time.

The moment was indeed fleeting but jarring enough for him to snap out of it and force himself to focus.

The sound of voices were drawing closer above him.

Trapped, yes, but he wasn’t alone he was acutely reminded.

There was one thing he could do.

Sportacus sucked in a lungful, unsure how much oxygen he had but hoping that it was enough.

And screamed for help.

The noise from outside erupted into a cacophony, cut abruptly short before the calling of his name and demands of his whereabouts began anew, this time more pointed and with true purpose. Sportacus screamed again, trusting them to locate where he was under all this debris. The shouting and yelling turned into something akin to excitement and Sportacus managed a smile.

It would take some time for them to get hold on a rescue force to extract him, not accounting for the planning and insurance of everyone’s safety. Or so he’d figured, which was why he was surprised when shortly after the space was already filled with the noise of groans and scraping metal and the darkness he’d been entombed in turned into a vague twilight, enough for him to see again without the aid of his insignia, and a very welcome draft of fresh air. Were they digging him out themselves?!

The realisation was somewhat awing, and troubling at the implications of the risk they were taking.

“Found him!”

Sportacus jerked in surprise how close the outcry was to him and the last of the obstructs above him were removed and his vision filled with the endless blue sky and the sun glaring in his eyes, forcing him to squint as large shapes hovered over him.

“Hi there,” the voice was more even, and Sportacus came to realise that it were the twins themselves.

“Keep that beam steady or I will haunt your ass from beyond the grave, do you hear me?!” Reeds raised his voice and shouted towards somewhere out of Sportacus' blurry vision.

“Hold still,” Gibs said down at Sportacus, flicking out a knife that had him still his movements in reaction to the demand as Gibs reached down and by a flair of his wrist cut off the line with surprising ease before Sportacus could object and getting dragged out on unsteady legs, and found himself held up between the two large men when he stumbled and his legs did predictively give out under him.

He was alive.

* * *

Sportacus was really, really, starting to dislike small spaces, he thought absently while a crowd cheered around him, and the whole experience was now feeling surreal facing all these excited people he was finding it hard to focus on.

“Is that, uh, is your emblem supposed to blink like that?”

Yes and no. That it was still blinking, if blessedly quiet so, was generally a bad sign. “Yes,” Sportacus replied to one of the twins’ question, the soft consonants he’d always struggled with further muddling his already slurred speech, “it means I need to rest and recuperate for a little while.”

Gibs nodded, appearing to take it at face value. “Need to recharge your batteries, heh?”

Something like that.

Life force artificially translated into lights and signals in place of the bond between a crystal and the current Number host. For purposes tweaked to as well respond to glutamate, the _fear chemical_ , in the amygdala in both host and within a proximate area.

A little bit of magic of old clad in modern regalia.

The side effect being that the newer generation with the augmented crystals having to learn how to rein in their own basic reactions, or it would go off nonstop whenever they were in action. Bessie was wrong, Sportacus didn’t have the permission to have all the feelings, though in a way, there were many different types of fears not all connected to the fight or flight instinct after all.

One of the other side effects being that they lost the initial delicate connection his forerunners, like Number Nine, had had. _He_ had only needed his crystal near his ear and he’d been able to make out location and urgency of someone’s distress, but could not pick up his own end…

Urging them to give up discretion for the sake of preservation. Much like how they had switched from their old means of transports.

Meanwhile Sportacus could not tell the difference between his crystal and a piece of glass.

No true bond, just batteries of flesh and transistors coupled to stone.

There were those introspective thoughts again that he didn’t need right now.

“Sportacus?”

Sportacus blinked and raised his gaze again.

A tall figure of tan and orange and…

The representative stood before him, hands hovering as afraid to touch Sportacus. The face pale enough that the freckles stood out in stark contrast and it took Sportacus a while to understand that he was still being spoken directly to.

“Hmm?”

“Do you need anything?” the man seemed to repeat, still appearing to be unsure just what to do with themselves.

“Some water and an apple would be nice,” Sportacus said weakly.

The representative blinked, then snorted wryly and shook his head, stepping back. “That’s… I’m sure there are some around. I’ll get you your apple,” he said and made to leave.

“Well, that’s one way of getting rid off him. Good work,” Gibs muttered. “Thought he was going to freak out completely.”

Sportacus tilted his head, wincing at a twinge in his neck, and his puzzlement had to step aside for the alarm when Gibs and Reeds renewed their grip on him and took him aside the very moment the representative turned their back to stalk away in search for Sportacus’ request.

Further alarming to him as the grip was like iron when he tried to struggle against it. He was spent but not to _this_ degree!

“Keep that desk-jockey busy ‘til we’re done,” Reeds hissed at one of the workers in passing and dragged Sportacus away and towards one of the trucks by the rest of the vehicles.

Wait.

The vehicles.

Sportacus turned his head to look at the collapsed structure and saw no lifts, no cranes, no nothing, but men and women loitering.

They’d dug him out that fast, _by hand_?

He found himself behind the truck and set down to sit on the bed step on the driver’s side, out of sight.

“You’re very strong,” Sportacus stated, looking up at them and with new eyes was now the one so size them up.

“Says the guy who pulled at least five tons over himself,” Reeds scoffed and smiled crookedly down at him.

“You took one serious hit there, though,” Gibs added. “We just want to have a look at you and thought that you’d like the privacy.” And raised a large hand towards Sportacus' hat, which had him flinch away and the man pull back. “Easy, easy, we’ve already figured. Sorry, but you’re not exactly that discreet, you know. But neither are we to be fair. You’re in _good_ company.”

He eyed them still with unease. He did not think he was in any danger, but there was still risks of ulterior motives. Nor did he appreciate the vagueness of the comment.

With a roll of his eyes and an exasperated sigh, Gibs continued, “so much for subtleness. _Elf_ , how do you think we can work this quickly?”

So they’d figured that out and if they had, then… “You’re not…?”

“We’re human enough,” Reeds replied to the unspoken word hanging in the air, “dunno what exactly grandma was. She didn’t stick around long enough… Your kind rarely does.”

Sportacus nodded mutely in response.

Gibs spoke, “most in the main crew has some sus family trees, and it fits us just fine.”

People moving the aluminium beams by hand… Of course.

In a world of humans he kept forgetting that there were the in-between. That those descendants were aware of their own blood was rarer still.

At Sportacus’ stunned silence Reeds asked, sounding genuinely concerned, “sheesh, man, when was the last time you were around your own?”

The fact that Sportacus had to think and start recounting the years was answer enough how long ago it had been since being in an actual elven community. There were a family of trolls up in the hills a fair distance from the town but elves and trolls did not really mix, trolls in general did not mix with anyone.

He shrugged.

Gibs leaned down again. “may I?”

Sportacus took his hat off on his own accord, letting the man feel his head and neck for any signs of injury and answering questions of if it hurt. Besides a slight noise of discomfort when pushing down a meaty thumb at the base of his skull, most likely caused from his awkward position he’d been cooped up in, he appeared to have come off easy.

“Well that’s a relief,” Reeds said when they’d concluded that Sportacus was, relatively speaking, okay and already readjusting his hat, adding sourly, “dealing with the mountain of paperwork thanks to _someone_ sawing off a weight-bearing junction is going to be a nightmare.”

“Is he alright?” Sportacus blurted out, remembering the man he’d caught.

Reeds muttered, “not after I get my hands on-” stopping himself as he understood who Sportacus actually meant. “Oh, you mean, yeah, he’s fine, thanks to you.”

That was good to hear and he felt that he could relax again with that knowledge.

Reeds shook his head. “This could have gone real bad, though. We were starting to think we’d have to arrange a body retrieval before you started to make some noise.” Adding, “honestly, I can’t tell if you’re blessed or cursed, if half of what I’ve heard from some of the locals is true.”

Gibs said, “considering that he seeks these things out, I’d say crazy.”

Sportacus didn’t exactly agree, but he couldn’t really find a decent argument against that statement either.

A long outdrawn whistling sounded and the twins sighed in unison as one, looking vexed.

“Oh goody,” Gibs said dryly, “he’s back.”

Sportacus didn’t need asking who when the irate loud voice that had to be the representative could be heard and closing in. Unsurprisingly in argument with someone. No wonder he wasn’t much liked by the twins and their crew.

“Could you do us a solid, and babysit that nuisance?”

“No promises,” Sportacus smiled and allowed himself to be helped to stand back up and be led around the truck, and back to the rest of the deconstruction workers and the tall figure of the representative that was indeed arguing with a worker that was near physically blocking his path, allowed to pass when Reeds gave a hand signal while they helped Sportacus down in a field chair someone had put out nearby.

“You did that on purpose,” the representative accused the twins when he was close enough.

“No idea what you’re talking about, I thought you were getting some water and fruits or something,” Gibs said lackadaisically.

“Uhu,” the representative noised, not looking convinced in the slightest and turned his attention to Sportacus. “Here.”

A bottle of water and apple, just as he’d asked. Well, close enough. The water was sparkling and the apple comically small. Regardless, he gave his thanks.

“Well, you stay put and rest and recuperate for a little while, as you called it, and we’ll get back to work,” Gibs announced.

“Promise that you’ll be more careful,” Sportacus said and waved from his position.

The representative gave him a look that could only be described as leery at that.

Reeds pulled a face and mouthed something that could be ‘ _paperwork_ ’, before giving a loud whistle that had the large group of people surrounding them assemble and get back to work, now disassembling the mound of giant jack-straws that were left of the envelope and the gondola.

As if nothing had happened.

Not too far off from them he spotted the FlyPod and the colourful flight recorders.

Good. The shed the children had used for their toy car race last year was currently empty, he could put away the aircraft there and find a safe spot for the recorders somewhere else.

All later, of course. As of right now he could barely stand without assistance, nor he himself understand what he was saying in his own ears.

This was really a small apple, he thought.

Sportacus didn’t bite into the fruit, but pressed it to his lips, closing his eyes and inhale the tangy aroma. It was almost too much, but it was familiar and he found comfort in that.

Only to open his eyes again and find the representative still hovering by his side and openly stare at him. Seemed like the man had taken it upon himself to babysit Sportacus instead.

Feeling self-conscious, Sportacus bit into the apple, discovering that the taste was just as intense as the smell. It did the trick as always and he felt as if a heavy weight at the top of his head lifted and the muscles in his limbs spring back to life, and he greedily ate the whole thing.

“Why?” the representative asked when Sportacus was nibbling on the very core.

Sportacus raised a brow in question of his own. “The apple?”

“No. I mean, why did you do that?” Waving towards the collapsed wreckage and the workers themselves.

The query made Sportacus give pause. It was so natural to him that he couldn’t fathom how anyone with good conscious could question his actions. “They could’ve died,” he replied.

“So could you,” the man pointed out.

He was very aware of that, yes.

And the severity of today was going to hit him later when he had the privacy to really process it all, he was sure of it. 

And then he would do it all again, next time. 

“Better me than them,” Sportacus uttered before he thought it through and tried to play it off with a sheepish smile and shrug. Maybe he wasn’t as clear headed yet as he’d thought.

The representative stared at him with wide eyes and the gleam of outrage was present in them again. “That… That has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he wheezed out after a while, seeming to hold back something more than sheer volume in his voice. “Has anyone checked you for head trauma?”

Sportacus could not tell if the man by his side was insulting him or asking a sincere question. “They did while you got me this,” he answered truthfully and raised the remains of the apple. “Thank you again.”

“They’re not medical professionals in any way, you could have a concussion, or, or-”

Sportacus gave him a level look and the representative cut himself off to let Sportacus speak. “The choice was mine to help them.” He always had a choice, and each and every time he choose to help, no matter the stakes or his own wellbeing. Though, even if he wouldn’t find himself contained in a small space like that again in a hundred years, it would still a hundred years too early. “And they did the same thing for me.”

The man said in a low voice, “you should not trust them, they take on jobs for _anyone_ that pays.”

Anyone, like Robbie Rotten.

And other crooks and villains no doubt.

Not henchmen per se, but definitely affiliates, and if Sportacus was to look at it objectively then he was forced to agree that they’d found a niche where few questions would be asked by those paying for their unique ‘ _skill set_ ’. Not too much unlike he himself in a way, he supposed.

Did Robbie know of the deconstruction workers origins, considering how often he must’ve employed them? He did somehow know of Sportacus’ but had refrained to use that knowledge than insulting him once for sake of manipulation.

It was leaning towards a hard yes.

The man spoke again after the silence of Sportacus' non-reply, “you’re wearing a helmet. Period. I don’t care how thick your skull is.”

“Do you think they have them in blue?” Sportacus joked and unscrewed the cap of the water bottle he’d been given, before said water bottle exploded in his face, drenching his front. He would never understand the allure with carbonated beverages.

The representative silently sneered and turned away, to leave Sportacus to wipe himself down and then take a more careful approach of drinking the water. “Very unlikely, Sporty.”

_Sporty_ … Now, that was a new one. He’d been called many things, none flattering, but he’d never been called _that_ before. Not of what he could recall at the moment anyway.

* * *

They didn’t have any helmets in blue. Reeds had made a puzzling comment of ‘ _not_ _yet_ ’, when Sportacus had been handed a bright yellow one instead.

What Sportacus did discovered that they did; was that the crew did utilize the vehicles, so they weren’t there just for show then, Sportacus mused from his perch. And it was accelerating their pace to a frightening speed. Working like machines themselves.

Staying by the side-lines didn’t sit quite right with him, but he had to respect that this was their workplace and he might just end up being in the way. Sometimes the wisest decision was to know when to sit one out. Even if he didn’t in particular agree with it.

And with sitting being a figurative expression as he ended up doing minor exercises to alleviate the nervous energy now having taken place of the shock, something that earned him chuckles and comments in passing of his restlessness. None with ill will behind it, more like a _recognition_.

He didn’t catch sight of the buyer’s representative until the very last piece of scrap metal had been loaded and people starting to leave, carrying a folder with papers and the clipboard under his arm and walking in long strides with the now late midday sun in his back.

The papers the representative had procured seemed to be above board, recognizing the company as a local cleantech business, and signed it. Not sure what good it would do if it really came down to legal matters. Technically, he did not exist.

“I hope you don’t mind cash,” the representative said curtly, all business again it seemed.

Considering that he did not have the means to prove identity or be accepted by any financial institution, cash sounded like the preferable option and was glad he did not need to explain himself or use any excuses.

Until he was handed the money in a plain envelope, that was.

“Don’t spend it in one go,” the representative said wryly.

That was… That was a lot of money. Sportacus had never had this much before in his life. Couldn’t even conceive it ever happening.

He didn’t know that one thousand bills were still in circulation!

Feeling lightheaded he closed the envelope and secured it within his vest and very aware of the press against his chest of its contents.

Even if he hadn’t needed to carry the FlyPod back into town, he’d refrain from doing any somersaults or other acrobatics in fear of dropping the money.

Mr. Greencrop had said something about prices not being what they used to be, and Sportacus could only fathom what the initial value must’ve been before, if this was considered low.

“I won’t,” Sportacus replied, tugging his mouth into a small nervous smile he couldn’t fight back down. “Thank you.”

The representative gave him a slant smile of his own before clearing his throat. “Pleasure is all ours. I’ll, uh, I’ll take my leave now.”

The man’s strides were long and hurried. Sportacus could not blame him for wanting to leave as quickly as possible.

Today had been eventful, to say the least.

Sportacus looked down on his copy of the document again, trying to decipher the downright messy signature of the buyer’s representative next to his own and finding it illegible.

Sportacus realised that he’d never gotten his name.

The twins approached him as he was done securing the flight recorders in the remnants of the pilot’s seat and raising the FlyPod up over his head. “Hey,” Gibs greeted him, “I see that you’re back to full speed again. That’s good. So, anyway…” He shared a look with his twin and Sportacus waited for him to continue, they clearly had something on their mind more than some courteous goodbyes. It still didn’t make him ready for what came next when Gibs spoke up again, “yeah, so, if you ever tire of the hero gig… We got a position opening and we could use someone like you.” Casting a meaning gaze up at the small aircraft Sportacus was currently carrying on raised arms. “You’re crazy, but you’re our kind of crazy. You get me?”

He did _get him_.

Sportacus smiled stiffly, not sure how to feel about the offer. “I appreciate it, but I’m far from done being a hero.”

“Well, if you do change your mind.” Reeds reached out to tuck a business card in the collar of Sportacus’ uniform. “We will probably be back here someday anyway.”

As quickly as the deconstruction workers had taken apart Sportacus’ ship they jumped into their trucks and drove off. Leaving the field empty and the only traces that they’d left behind were the trampled ground and tire tracks in the mud.

And the empty crater.

* * *

‘ _To whom it may concern._

_I need help._

_Sincerely, Sportacus Ten._ ’

He saw the cylinder he’d found in the drawers in the Mayor’s office shoot high into the air, holding his breath. Watching it disappear into the starry night sky above.

And then in an arch come sailing back down to earth and land in a shrubbery across the town square.

He was alone.

Really truly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OSHA what?
> 
> This chapter did really not go the way I had initially planned and ending up being twice as long AND I was kinda fighting it all until I reminded myself that this fic is pure idgaf and self-indulgence.


	7. Favours Abound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because that's what friends are for

Ms. Busybody did not even look from the crosswords she was solving in the morning paper by her work desk. “Good morning, Sportacus. You’re up rather late,” she stated.

He gave her a slant smile. “Morning. You’re early.”

“That I am,” she had a small smile of her own and drummed her pen against the edge of the paper. It was barely past eight in the morning. Late by his standards. Long before the town hall’s office hours. She raised her gaze and seemed to scrutinize him and the new scrapes adorning his skin on view outside of the renewed bandages, her smile tensing, before saying, “there was this awful racket yesterday. I swear the whole building shook. You don’t happen to know what that was?”

It should not surprise him that the town must’ve felt the collapse. “That was from the removal of the ship you felt. I hope we didn’t make anyone worry.”

“No more than the usual. I’d like to think that we have gotten used to it by now.”

_The usual…_

_By now…_

“It’s no easy thing, I can only imagine,” she continued. “I hope that it went well, though.”

“It did. In fact…” Sportacus cleared his throat. “Bessie, there is something, if you could, perhaps, do me a favour?” he asked tentatively.

She put away the paper, her curiosity piqued. A bit too eagerly for his liking, but he'd figured that she was the only one he could turn to. “Of course, Sportacus.” She chirped, “anything!”

An expression taken too lightly.

Fumbling slightly he brought out the envelope he had received the day before. “The payment for the debris,” he explained.

“A check?” Ms. Busybody inquired, taking it in hand. Feeling the weight and density of the envelope, her mouth pursed and brow drew together, further deepening in confusion as she opened it and saw the contents, counting it.

The silent play of features overtaking her could only be described as a silent scream as her lips parted in a slack jawed expression and looking back up at him. “How… That is...” she near wheezed. “Sportacus,” she managed eventually, “this is _a lot_ of money,” her voice in a low sotto voce.

He nodded. So it was not just him then.

“What are you going to do with this?”

At that he could do no more than let his own features slip into bewilderment and shrug with his hands raised. He’d hoped that _she’d_ be able to help him with this!

She closed the envelope and gave it back to him, eyeing it with wary. “If I were you, I’d get it in a bank account. Quickly.”

“Yes… That… I’m not sure how that all works?” Which was the truth in part. “And I don’t have any, uhm… Identifications?”

“Right, the fire.” She pursed her mouth again and seemed in thought, mulling it over. “I’ll see what I can do or if someone else does.”

“Thank you, Bessie. There’s one other thing I wondered if you could help me with?”

“Yes, dear?” Ms. Busybody answered.

“Could you help me contact Mr. Greencrop? He wasn’t there yesterday and I promised to share the income.”

She quirked a brow in amusement, “I think I can manage a phone call, or two.”

The clicking of the rotary dial of the old office phone filled the air as Ms. Busybody made the call and she twinned her fingers round the coiled cord as Sportacus sat awkwardly across the desk in silence.

They both straightened up when the other end picked up and what Sportacus could make out of a voice answering.

“Hi!” Ms. Busybody started. “It’s Bessie Busybody! How are you? I-”

Her cheery introductions didn’t make it further than that when the other end interrupted and Sportacus could now pick out snippets of an angry raised male voice sounding just vaguely familiar in his ears. And he did not in particular like what it said.

“ _What do you want?! If this is about the-Don’t you know I’m busy?! Fu-”_

“Yes, but, it’s about the money that-” she tried to get a word in, in vain.

“ _Money?!-ain’t got time for your frivolous drivel-campaigning my-_ ” the onslaught carried on, _“the fucking field’s a mess-some as-and I got real work to do!-goddamn politicians-and don’t get me on-and-”_

Sportacus did not quite catch the last part, but he felt that he was probably better off that way when the extremely brief and one-sided phone call ended with the enraged farmer having terminated the call and the dial tone now sounding.

Something about the field was all that had made sense to him. 

Sportacus was the first to speak up again. “Bessie…” That had been rude beyond reason.

“Well, alright then. _Someone_ woke up on the wrong side. _Again_ ,” said Ms. Busybody, voice bright and crisp and her eyes too wide as she put down the phone. “Odd, but I suppose that this means that he doesn’t care about the money all that much, if at all.”

“But, I…” he was to protest. Maybe he could directly talk with the farmer and smooth over any misunderstandings.

She shook her head at him. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Sportacus,” Ms. Busybody said. “Accept the good fortune. It’s not blood money or anything like that.”

His lips drew into a tight line, unable to mask his displeasure. A promise was a promise and he liked to honour his deals.

Ms. Busybody gave him a mirrored expression, holding his gaze.

“Alright,” he said, letting his shoulders sink and accepting things as they were.

Besides, a petty part of him made itself known, he wasn’t so sure that he _wanted_ to give the farmer a share anymore. Not after how he’d treated Ms. Busybody. Deal or not.

“Good,” she replied, and settled back in her chair.

“Are you okay?” Sportacus asked. “You didn’t deserve that.”

She gave him a small smile and waved him off. “Don’t worry, dear. This isn’t the first time and won’t be the last. You learn not to take these things personal.”

He gave her a stiff nod, not so sure about that, as she collected the morning paper again and went back to the crossword from earlier.

Letting him silently leave her and return to the upper floor of the building.

* * *

It was nothing short of a bad cliché in itself, but there weren’t many other places he could think of for safekeeping.

The mattress would have to do.

Money hidden in the mattress.

And things hidden under the bed.

The flight recorders were shoved under the narrow bed, out of sight, as he’d figured that it was a better place than the shed where he’d stored the FlyPod yesterday.

He’d have to explain that one to the children.

Sportacus readjusted the spare arm bracer he’d donned on his right arm, having replaced the broken one that now laid on the chair by the bed. Right by the cylinder he’d sent out last night…

There had been a slim hope. That there had been another hero out there.

Someone to help him.

Laughable. He had not cared much about the other heroes’ whereabouts in years.

He’d just…

Assumed that they had been out there somewhere. Just like him. That they’d been out in the clouds, free solitary creatures, travelling, far away but close enough.

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

Nine had once asked Sportacus, before, what he truly wanted out of this lifestyle.

And a warning.

He’d just have to work with what he had at hand now, he figured.

* * *

  
The FlyPod was where he’d left it.

Maybe he’d been somewhat overly optimistic when he’d decided to save it. Compared to the rest of the ruined gondola it had looked near pristine.

On its own, however? Seeing it as it actually was. Well, it put things into clearer perspective.

He could make repairs, to an extent. He was a pilot, not an actual mechanic.

Going down on one knee he inspected it closer in the daylight streaming in from the open doors. The integrity of the structure had been compromised by the heat of the fire, and there was no telling of what the inside looked like. If worst came to worst he might end up with a completely new aircraft. Would it even be worth trying to salvage it if he only ended up exchanging it?

On the bright side, money would not be an issue.

Now, if he could open the engine cowl and have a look at the inside he might have a better idea of how deeply the damage went…

“What are you doing?” he heard Ziggy ask and he looked over his shoulder to see the rest of the townschildren curiously crowding the opening.

“Hi, kids,” Sportacus said and smiled wide. He gestured to the FlyPod he was kneeling besides. “I saved it from the airship, I _think_ I can restore it.”

“Oh! Cool!” Ziggy exclaimed and came nearer. “How you gonna do that?!”

Pixel joined in to eye the aircraft. “Are you sure that’s possible?” his voice more sombre than his friends. The boy scanned the structure and knit his brow. “I’m getting data that the posterior as well as the left aileron are fused, the fuselage are showing signs of degradation and the engine is, according to my data, yeah, the cylinders and timing belt is bust. And that’s just from the superficial diagnosis. Sorry, Sportacus,” Pixel added, giving him a pitying smile.

That answered his earlier musing of the state of the innards.

“What’s a fusewhat?” Ziggy asked.

“The main body,” Stephanie replied before Sportacus or Pixel could. “It’s the central body portion of an airplane,” she said and shrugged. “Uncle Milford has taken me to his hangar a couple of times and showed me how it works.”

That’s right, Mr. Meanswell was a pilot in his own right, favouring his vintage aeroplane that he sometimes took his niece out on flying trips in.

Stephanie stepped up beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t give up, Sportacus. I know that you can do it.”

“Thanks, Stephanie,” he answered. He let out a small sigh, “but I suspect it will take time.”

“That’s alright,” she said, smile unwavering.

“Okay, but exactly how long will that be?” Stingy asked. “When will we be able to put our cars back in _my_ garage?”

“Still not your garage,” Pixel mumbled to himself.

At the heated glare from the others the boy huffed, “I suppose I _could_ lend it to Sportacus in the meanwhile.” Crossing his arms. “But it’s still a legitimate question.”

Giving Sportacus’ shoulder a squeeze Stephanie drew back to tap her chin. “You know, you could ask Uncle Milford? I bet he has both the space and tools for you.”

Sportacus hadn’t thought of that. “You’re right Stephanie, I should ask him.” And that way the children would get their shed back for their toy cars.

“Uhu, good luck with that, so anyway, wanna play frisbee with us?” Trixie asked.

“I’d like that very much, yes,” he grinned. There was not much else he could do about the FlyPod and he was itching for doing something else. “What are the rules?”

“Frisbee golf,” she announced, “we set up nets around town and only rule is to not being a cheater.”

“That’s a rather broad interpretation,” Stingy sniffed and straightened out his waistcoat.

“You know what you did,” Trixie answered before taking off and Sportacus followed along with the rest, curious of what they had put together.

* * *

  
The girl’s idea of cheating had not been so broad as too not stand too close to the nets and extra points for _style_ which Sportacus was proud to claim had been a tie between himself and Trixie herself.

All in all pretty tame.

Almost too tame and out of old habit he’d started to anticipate anything to intervene, be it a trick of Trixie’s becoming hazardous, someone being in trouble elsewhere.

Or a villain.

As it was, the crystal had been quiet.

A normal spring day playing with friends.

With curfew for their youngest and parents coming home from work for most they parted ways and Sportacus waved them farewell, hearing the children already starting to make plans for the weekend with more games. He smiled and took off to run and flip back to town hall, hoping to be able to catch Mr. Meanswell in his office and ask if he had room in his hangar for Sportacus’ aircraft. And maybe, while he was at it, be able to ask about the man’s work involving the re-regional committee, and of Sportacus’ own until recent unwitting part of it.

Mr. Meanswell was in his office. Ms. Busybody seemed to have left for the day, but Sportacus discovered that the Mayor was not alone as he entered the building.

A businessman, Sportacus could only assume, lounged in the chair across the Mayor’s desk. Clad in a dark pinstriped suit of navy blue and purple silk tie and matching dark pork pie hat. The stranger’s legs were crossed by the ankles and looking at total ease, until he caught sight of Sportacus and straightened up, the full goatee on his face twitching in a flash grimace that had to be a twinge as a result from moving too quickly in the bad posture. Sportacus felt bad for startling them like that.

“Sportacus,” Mr. Meanswell greeted him, smiling wide. “What good timing you have, I must say. Yes, truly… Where are my manners? Let me introduce you to-”

The man stood up and drawled in a thick accent Sportacus had a hard time placing, “name’s Rich Rubens, a pleasure meeting you.” Mr. Rubens tipped his hat at Sportacus in lieu of shaking his hand.

“Uh, nice to meet you, too? I’m Sportacus.”

“So I have gathered, indeed.”

Southern, Sportacus had decided on, but the exact origin eluded him as it sounded more as an affectation.

The businessman, Mr. Rubens, turned back to Mr. Meanswell to address him in parting, “Mr. Mayor, it was good doing business with you, but I’m afraid I have to take my leave post-haste. There’s been some other matters that’s come to my attention that I need to tend to. All the papers should be in order and all that remains is a signature, or two.”

Mr. Meanswell blinked in confusion, “but, but I thought that perhaps you’d like to speak to Sportacus directly about this proposition of yours?”

“Proposition?” Sportacus asked aloud, still standing by the doorway.

“I’m sure that this is more than within your area of expertise,” the man said to Mr. Meanswell. “I’m glad to see that my benefaction will be of good use and I got to meet the man himself, if albeit briefly so.”

“I… Suppose so,” Mr. Meanswell said, sounding flummoxed still.

Collecting a suitcase that had been obscured, the man gave a final nod to Sportacus in passing. “So sorry for your loss, by the way.”

Sportacus was not all too sure what had just gone on and watched the stranger leave the building and disappear round the corner.

“Is something wrong?” Sportacus asked. What business had they been talking about? Did it have something to do with the Mayor’s ventures and meetings with the re-regional committee?

“Oh? Oh no, on the contrary! Please, have a seat and let me explain.” Waiting for Sportacus to sit in the just earlier occupied chair, Mr. Meanswell started again, restacking a folder of documents before him, which did nothing to put Sportacus’ own mind at ease, “you see, Rich Rubens is a landowner and entrepreneur and he… Well, out of the goodness of his heart… Oh dear how should I put this… He, like many other here, have heard of your situation and reached out to help. And generously so, I might add.”

“Milford?” Sportacus asked, wanting Mr. Meanswell to get to the point but not wanting to sound brusque either.

“Right, so, he’s free of charge decided to part with one of his local plots. And bestow it upon _you_.”

Sportacus froze, thinking that he’d heard wrong. “What?!”

“You’re free to choose from any of the marked out sites on the town map,” Mr. Meanswell opened up the folder and extracted what looked like outlines of Lazytown, actual property maps, as he spoke, “you might want to have a look around this weekend to see for yourself and we’d have it settled come Monday... Are you alright, Sportacus? You’re looking a little pale there.”

“I’m good, I think, I’m… Wow.”

“Wow indeed,” the Mayor answered blithely, taking Sportacus’ shock as one of excitement. “This was very generous of him. He’s been in possession of some of the most attractive sites for future enterprises for years. Imagine it, you, a homeowner and _proper_ LazyTowner!”

Sportacus was very familiar with the sensation of free falling, he’d done it numerous times out of his old airship. It was usually thrilling and he was always in control. This, however, was going too fast, no control and the ground was rapidly approaching.

“I think I need to sit down.”

“But, you’re already sitting down, Sportacus,” Mr. Meanswell chuckled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Local fic author keeps being haunted by cursed and useless aircraft info.
> 
> Yeah this one should be a bit too easy to pick out.


	8. House Haunting Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sportacus in the distance screaming in confusion at Adult Stuff*

Needless to say, word had quickly gotten around of the surprise donation Sportacus had received. How it had started was of little concern to him, but he did have his short list of blue haired suspects. The end result had, however, been that the townschildren had as a collective decided to ‘ _volunteer_ ’ to accompany him and appeared on the front step of town hall the very same evening, with adamant looks on their small faces as if they’d been ready to strongarm him into submission.

Turning the venture into a group activity did feel like the best option, he would have to agree, and had seen little to no reason to object to the idea and had instead been expressing encouragement at the suggestion, to the children’s delight.

Bringing Mr. Meanswell and Ms. Busybody as well had felt necessary as Sportacus had taken one look at the folder and drawn a complete blank. What on earth was an easement? Mortgage deeds? _EPC_?!

He could probably use all the help he could get from the two already seasoned homeowners.

* * *

It had been raining heavily during the night with dark overcast still persisting into the Saturday forenoon with a dense fog accompanied by a light drizzle, the air cold and damp enough that umbrellas were nigh useless.

This did not dishearten the group that had already gathered in the town square, still missing two of the boys. There was a saying; there's no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes. And Sportacus was glad that he’d opted to wear the new wind breaker. Ill-fitting as it may be, somehow being too long yet too narrow over his frame, it was at least a somewhat matching blue to his uniform he’d noted when he’d taken it out to really look at it, figuring it might as well be a good idea to lead by example and openly use some of the gifts he’d received from the children while at it.

 _And_ , judging by the children’s reactions, he should probably do the former more often.

“I knew it. He’s finally lost it,” Trixie had deadpanned upon seeing him.

“Why?” Jab about his psyche set aside, that was.

“You’re wearing long-sleeved. You _never_ wear long-sleeved,” she pointed out.

Yeah... He should definitely start doing that more often. 

“Is everyone here?” Mr. Meanswell asked standing close to Ms. Busybody and holding an umbrella over her while the water hit his own exposed shoulder. The woman in turn was holding the folder with the property maps and documents close to her chest.

“Not yet,” Stephanie answered, “we’re still waiting for Pixel and Stingy.”

“Uuugh, what is taking them so long?!” Ziggy complained loudly. “This is the coolest thing _ever!_ And they’re late!” Bouncing in his rain boots and letting the umbrella over him bob with the jerky motions. “I’m going to be neighbour’s with Sportacus!”

“Not if he becomes my neighbour,” Trixie said, grinning wide.

Sportacus chuckled, the boys weren’t that late, on the contrary, the ones already there were early.

But he could understand the eagerness.

“Excited?” Stephanie asked Sportacus, looking up at him from under the hood of her raincoat.

He nodded. Excited was one word for it. It was an equal mix of the word in both the positive and negative sense. He’d barely come to terms with the fact that his ship was truly gone and then _this_ had been dropped into his lap. Truthfully, he was way out of his element here.

“I am a little nervous… Just a little bit,” he confessed to her.

“Butterflies in your stomach?”

“Yes,” he laughed under his breath, remembering when he’d tried to explain to her how he’d felt about the impromptu ‘ _Sportacular Spectacle Day_ ’ Mr. Meanswell had come up with during Sportacus’ first year in LazyTown and he’d felt all his eyes on him, wanting to make an impression. To not disappoint her.

That day could not have gone any more different. But in the end it had worked out, in its own way. And Sportacus had learned to take the resident Robbie Rotten more serious than just an eccentric recluse.

Sportacus wondered what Robbie might think of all this going on in the here and now. Surely it had not passed him unnoticed, somehow, things rarely did.

They spotted Pixel rounding the corner of one of the low walls edging the town square, and Sportacus being somewhat disappointed in Stingy upon the sight greeting them.

Stephanie was the one to voice it, though. “Really, Stingy?” she asked, tilting her head and crossing arms over her chest disapprovingly. “You’re going to drive everywhere?”

“It’s a large area to cover,” Stingy sniffed, slowing his yellow toy car to a crawl as he rolled up by them and Pixel trailing close behind to wave in greeting. “ _I’m_ only here to ensure that it’s all above board and not any of my father’s properties.”

“Yes, but there’s still no need to drive. Walk with us.”

“But,” he whined, “if I leave the car then the seat will be wet!”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have brought it in the first place,” Trixie griped.

“Told you,” Pixel said, sounding droll and to which Stingy huffed in indignation. “Should’ve picked a better day for bringing it out for spring.” Sportacus noted that Stingy was well on his way to outgrowing the battery driven vehicle. This would probably be the last summer he’d drive it, before having it exchanged for a newer, more expensive model, perhaps. Claiming that the Spoileros were well off was an understatement, not with the boy’s father being the resident chief director of the LazyTown Bank. 

“Now, now,” Mr. Meanswell tried to caution them, “there’s no need for that.”

Stingy grumbled something low and incoherent to himself but made no other signs to argue. 

“Can we start now?” Ziggy asked, “ _please_?”

“Okay, gather up, people,” Ms. Busybody declared, procuring one of the maps. “Now that we’re all here. Let us see… Our first destination is down this way to the shopping street.”

“A good choice,” Stingy said and started up his car again. “Let us begin!”

* * *

Mr. Meanswell did have a somewhat interesting take on the whole _most attractive sites_ in town.

Honestly, it felt more like this Rich Rubens had been hoarding properties at random, with no sign of any actual plans to further develop them.

Their first destination had not caught Sportacus’ fancy, or any of his friends’ either, really, with the plot being narrow and wedged between two houses with the main street too close for comfort. And they’d started crossing off the plots on the map -starting with that one, and then they kept crossing more and more off.

Too narrow.

Too many trees he’d be reluctant to disturb since signs of birds nesting had already started to show.

Too much or too little of something they would be quick to point out. 

He had never considered himself particularly picky. Some _had_ been quite alright and he could sort of imagine himself living in the areas they were in, yes, _sort of_ , but wanted to keep his options open.

And then there was _this_ ;

“Well, this is most definitely not my father’s,” Stingy said.

Pixel spoke up as well, “would’ve been nice of them to give us a key or opened the gate for us to enter...”

Could be because it hadn’t been considered a viable option, and understandably so.

The lack of greenery was only making the paved ground on the other side of the chain link fence and old run-down remains of a petrol station seem all the more depressing. There being almost a haunted quality to it in the bleak weather.

Sportacus peered through the old rusted fence, considering if he should jump it to have a better look up close.

Though, it seemed he wasn’t the only one that had had that idea.

Trixie pushed away from the fence. “Meh, there’s not much to see in there anyway. Just some old empty crates and oil tank on the back.

“And how do _you_ know that?” Ms. Busybody asked, cocking a brow and looking like she already knew the answer.

“Ermh,” Trixie cleared her throat and wiped her shoe on a tussock, “I just do. Look, you can see the tank from here!”

Sportacus merely smiled and shook his head while everyone was busy looking at Trixie. Of course she’d climbed the fence. An abandoned old petrol station? That just begged to be explored. “It’s okay, Trixie.” Of all her mischiefs this one was harmless. More or less, if disregarding the trespassing itself, that is. “Now we don’t need to go in anymore.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, though Sportacus did catch the smile on her face as she ducked her head and turned away.

“The location _is_ rather convenient,” Mr. Meanswell mused. “It would require some work, though.”

“And,” Ms. Busybody filled in while going through the folder of cadastres, “that’s just on the surface level, I’m afraid. There’s an old oil pit as well. It would require a tremendous amount of work and costs for demolitions _and_ remediation before even thinking of building something new. I think we’re better off moving on from this one.”

“Told you,” Trixie groaned. “We’ve been at this all day. Seriously, when are we going to find the perfect spot?”

“As it happens,” Ms. Busybody answered, “there’s one more to see and then we’ve seen them all.”

Trixie cried out, “finally, yes!”

“I bet it will be that last one,” Ziggy said, “like on the TV shows that nana watches, our _mystery house_ just waiting to be found.”

“Unless counting _that_ ,” Pixel pointed to the abandoned petrol station on the other side, “then there aren’t any actual houses to look at even.”

“Those shows are like super fake anyway, so it still fits,” Trixie shrugged.

Sportacus saw Mr. Meanswell hand the umbrella over to Ms. Busybody and trail behind the rest of the group, coming beside Sportacus who matched the man’s step to let the children take lead, following Ms. Busybody’s directions and moving them back in what he recognised as the direction of the town square.

“So,” Mr. Meanswell said, “Stephanie mentioned something to me about you wanting to use my hangar?”

Right! The FlyPod! Sportacus had completely forgotten to ask Mr. Meanswell, having had that train of thought completely derailed yesterday. “Oh! That’s, yes, I was wondering if you had space for me to work on my FlyPod? I was going to ask yesterday, but…”

“Quite understandable, of course you can use my hangar, Sportacus,” Mr. Meanswell smiled brightly. “I’ll tidy up a bit and you can move it there.”

“Thank you, Milford.”

“The least I could do.”

While Sportacus was back in that mindset he also remembered what he’d wanted to ask the Mayor earlier as well. “Milford?”

“Yes?”

“Have you had any more meetings in MayhemTown, with the Provincial Board?” Better be blunt, he thought and said, “about _me_?”

“Ah, Ms. Busybody told you, didn’t she?” Mr. Meanswell said and looked ahead towards his live apart partner and colleague.

“She did.” And some other things.

“By some well-chosen words as well, no doubt,” Mr. Meanswell sighed as if he’d read Sportacus’ mind and shook his head wistfully, the smile still in place but somewhat tenser. “Well, you should not worry too much.” He added, before Sportacus could say anything in response, “I don’t know how much Bessie has already told you, but know this; bureaucracy is tedious at best, and yearly budgets are more or less set in stone, but, I think I’ve found a window to influence and argument for revising the action plans and crisis management templates. The ball is slow, but once it starts rolling, almost nothing can stop it.”

That still did not address how they’d let it come to this in the first place, or how dangerous it was. Sportacus bit back the frustration and swallowed it down, tasting it like vinegar, it was already done and their Mayor was working on rectifying things. “For better or worse?” he asked, trying to not let it show. 

“Quite so,” Mr. Meanswell agreed. “Though, considering that you’re becoming a permanent resident here, I’m sure we’ll have something worked out that will benefit all,” he smiled again and started walking faster to catch up with Ms. Busybody and the children.

“Sportacus, are you coming?!” Stephanie shouted from ahead.

“Coming!” And he sprinted.

Permanent… It was starting to look like it, didn’t it?

* * *

Fake or not, it seemed that Ziggy was right. In a way.

“I might’ve saved the best for last,” Ms. Busybody said, sounding a bit smug as they approached the last plot on the town map.

That she had.

It was essentially smack dab in town; close by the ballpark, the stores and school, and triangulated by the children’s homes.

All in all, it was...

“It’s perfect!” Stephanie cried out.

“I guess so?” Sportacus had to agree. It was convenient and did check off what constituted as an attractive site.

The plot itself was relatively small, enough for a modest house and a small garden if he wanted to, surrounded by a worn picket fence that once had been pristine white. There even was an old apple tree, it’s knotty branches in need of pruning and shearing, but held promise nonetheless. 

The plot’s size could be compromised by the closeness to the ballpark.

He’d always be close at hand. 

“Sweet! We finally found it!” Trixie joined in with Stephanie’s excitement. 

“Anything I need to know?” Sportacus asked Ms. Busybody while the children explored the property.

“No, it all seems to be as should be. There are restrictions to building height and number of storeys, but, unless you plan to erect anything over twenty-two feet, it’s all good,” she replied after going through the folder. 

Sportacus could jump higher than that!

He looked over the plot and weighed the pros against the cons. Location was great. The children seemed ecstatic by it. There was an apple tree. Sure, it was a bit smaller than he’d like and the height of any house, no, _cottage_ , he’d deem to build would be restrictive, but the ballpark and the outdoors were right outside. And, he reminded himself, there was no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes. Come rain or shine. 

“Guess this will do,” he said. 

“Awesome!” they heard Ziggy shout, having overheard him and come barrelling back towards them, the group already celebrating. 

* * *

And with celebration, came a celebratory lunch and the group was just in time before a local bistro’s lunch hours were over. 

Not paying too much attention to his friends at the long outdoor wooden table, who at the moment seemed fully capable of either eating with gusto or entertaining themselves with drawing plans for the future involving their new ‘ _neighbour Sportacus_ ’, and absently eating his own salad, his head was bowed over the documents as he tried to make sense of what Ms. Busybody had spoken about earlier. Maybe there was a work around the height restrictions, he hoped. 

Detecting nothing indicating so, he sighed and opened the map of LazyTown, snorting in amusement at the nonsensical scribbles the woman, and some of the children, he gathered, had written in red marker in the margins.

They had truly been everywhere and seen all that his benefactor had to offer. 

He was about to close the map and re-join the conversation when something made him do a double take and reopen the map. Closer inspecting the southwest area between the town and the LazyTown Great Lake. 

“We haven’t looked at them all,” Sportacus declared, looking over the map. 

The chattering around him quieted down almost instantly, the group as one creature peering curiously up at him. “What do you mean, Sportacus?” Mr. Meanswell inquired and leaned over the table to try and look at what Sportacus was tapping his finger on in the map. 

“We haven’t seen all the plots yet,” he said. There was one left and he pointed it out on the drawn properties for them all to see.

“This one?” Ms. Busybody scrutinised the map. “Pardon me, Sportacus, but that one is perhaps a bit out of town. I didn’t think it was of any interest.”

It was a bit out of town as she’d claimed, if comparing to the earlier plots they’d visited. Looking at the scale he’d gather it was less than a kilometre from their current location.

“It’s always good to have all bases covered and it’s no more than ten minutes away.” At their sceptic faces he added, “see it as a fun way to finish off the day,” in suggestion.

“I’m not so sure about that…”

“Hey! It’s Sportacus’ house hunting!” Stephanie objected. “If he wants to see them all then we’re going as well!”

“Well, I suppose we’re going then,” Mr. Meanswell conceded.

* * *

What the map failed to illustrate was the terrain.

And altitude.

“Are we there yet?” Stingy complained. “Why are we doing this again, I thought we’d already decided on a spot?”

“It’s not _that_ far,” Stephanie argued, “and you’re the only one not walking!” There was a sharp edge to her tone, enough evidence that even though she’d been the one to champion Sportacus’ suggestion and follow him, she was just as worn out and, let’s face it, crabby, as the rest of the children.

“We’re almost there,” Sportacus tried to encourage them. 

At least the weather was improving as they were making their climb, it had stopped raining since long ago and he thought himself make out glimpses of the sky beyond the grey mass hanging over them. 

The grass was tall and wet, and the ground somewhat spongey with mud squelching under their feet when they’d run out of paved road, forcing Stingy to abandon his car and start griping for real as they continued upwards and even Sportacus was finding it hard to find good footing with the sleek rubber soles of his own boots and the promise of slipping and fall was the only thing keeping him from taking a shortcut straight up instead of the curving trail. 

Comparing, even Ms. Busybody’s booties were more sensible.

They did reach the peak, eventually. It was if anything a great lookout point of the surrounding area. There was the fields, the forest and mountains in the far off distance as he turned around. 

Not bad. Not bad at all. He was somewhat surprised that he’d never ventured up here before now. Then again, he’d realised that there were many places he hadn’t bothered to explore proper, until today.

“So, this is it?” Trixie said, not seeming all that impressed with the greenery or surrounding in general. 

Like most sites they had already visited there were tussocks, various weeds cropping up despite still early spring and shrubberies. And like most earlier sites there were signs and remnants of earlier structures.

“Ooh, I wonder what used to be here?” Ziggy asked, already climbing onto the remnants of a concrete base.

“From what I remember, I think it was an industrial building, or a warehouse,” Mr. Meanswell stated, trying to mask his laboured breathing while wiping his brow and looking around himself. “Can’t remember what Rich Rubens had in mind with this hill, but I remember that the pitch was grand.”

Sportacus figured that the elevated base left of whatever had been there before, and of which Ziggy was now investigating along with Trixie, had to be approximately thirty by ten metres. Quite sizable to say the least. Just by itself it was roughly about the same size as the plot they’d chosen in town and Mr. Meanswell’s recollection might indeed have some weight to it. 

“Interesting,” Ms. Busybody mused aloud to herself, her mouth pouting in a way Sportacus had seen her do many times when in thought.

“What is it?” he asked.

She turned the pages of the cadastre and said, “this place has been in disuse for years, but if these details back from when Mr. Rubens required it are correct… Then there’s its own well, despite the elevation, I’m assuming thanks to the nearby lake… And if nothing has changed then there’s a connection to LazyTown’s wastewater system and electrical grid. Though, there’s no sure way of saying what state all this is in, or how much work it would take to get it all re-established.”

“Internet coverage is pretty bad, though” Pixel said and tapped at his wrist band, “I can’t get a decent signal… Are people still using 4G?!”

“It’s still rather advanced for a warehouse,” Ms, Busybody stated. “Too bad it’s all the way out here.”

Sportacus hummed low and climbed the concrete base to look out again. 

“Gee, bummer,” Trixie quipped sarcastically from where she was presumably still investigating the remnants. 

Sportacus assumed that she was. 

Truthfully? He wasn’t really paying that much attention anymore.

He stood looking out from his spot, only vaguely aware of the discussions taking place around him.

To the southwest he had a perfect view of the lake, dark and waster then he knew it truly was, its beach bleak and barren. And in the north, he could see LazyTown itself.

All of it.

The angle was different from what he was used to, yes, but it was all there and he could see it clearly.

As it would have it, the sun was breaking through the clouds, making the yellow stucco shine like gold again. There were the suburbs, the town hall, the parks and playgrounds, and just across town from him, the billboard of what he knew was the painting of a faux mansion.

Always opposites, it would seem.

Yet, looking out over the town, it was almost breath-taking in a way he’d never gotten to appreciate from a bird’s eye, and a feeling of _right_ he could feel in his gut that the earlier location had failed to evoke in him.

Far away, but close enough.

Mr. Meanswell said, seeming to finally have caught his breath again, “my, look at that view, you can see the mountains even. This was a nice way to round things up, indeed. Let’s call it a day and I’ll let Rich Rubens know that you’ll sign the deed for the central plot first thing on Monday.”

“No.”

“No?” Mr. Meanswell spluttered in bewilderment.

“No,” Sportacus repeated himself, clearer, stronger. Standing with his hands on his hips and a grin stretching itself across his features.

“What do you mean ‘ _no_ ’?” Trixie demanded, sounding outraged, matched by the heated murmur of her friends.

Stephanie sided up by him. “Sportacus?”

Sportacus features softened, tried to anyway, looking down at her and seeing the disappointment clear on her face.

His feelings had to be just as evident on his own face, as she said lowly, “you like it better here, don’t you?”

He should feel apologetic, they’d all been excited about and by now counted on him moving in practically next doors. But he just couldn’t bring himself to. He looked back out over the scenery. “Yeah, I think I do,” he said.

“At least it’s not an old gas station,” Ms. Busybody sighed and closed the folder.

Sportacus smiled if even possible wider.

He’d found _his_ perfect spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this chapter did not want to get written. I even had it on google drive so I could chip away at it during beaks at work, which I NEVER do otherwise.
> 
> Of all the ooc things I do believe forcing the man into long-sleeved _sensible_ clothing tops it all.
> 
> Yeah so... Once upon a time yours truly studied Real Estate Economics, and bits and pieces were starting to resurface and I had to work hard on not turning this into a needless infodump that will benefit absolutely no one.  
> Also this should explain why I have a funny relationship with homeownership in my other works...
> 
> Which our unfortunate Sporty boy here is just getting a first taste of.


	9. Communing With the Absent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sportacus tried, or so he claims.

Pale hands around his neck, around the other’s. The man below him, above him.

Water seeping through the ground.

Cold as ice, it’s rising. Numbing, submerging them both.

If they both let go, they can swim. If one let go, _he_ will drown. It’s mutually understood, yet, they both hold on.

Rather drown together, than be the fool alone.

Narcissus at the pool, staring back at himself. Transfixed.

Who’s looking at who?

Addicted, so ridiculously…

‘ _Are you happy now?_ ’

‘ _Am I?_ ’

He thought that he’d finally get a full night’s worth of sleep at last. He’d gone to bed the previous evening feeling somewhat at peace. Had even done so at his usual eight minutes over eight. As it would have it, Sportacus’ subconscious seemed to have some issues to work through still. The nights of bad dreams had been hazy and intangible, with more of a sense of urgency and a feeling of unsettle carrying on onto his waking state. Not fully put together as he should be and threatening to come undone at the seams, but bearable. This, however, was as sharp as a razor’s blade, making him wake up in a cold sweat, heart thrumming in his ears and his being cut to ribbons.

Robbie…

* * *

Some morning exercises and running in the cool damp air were to help centre himself, he figured.

Weatherwise, Sunday did not start off that much better than the previous day and he’d found himself in the ill-fitting jacket twice in as many days. At least it had pockets. It was not quite yet true dawn and the fog lay white and thick over the ground, but he found his way around town regardless.

Just to make sure, and to entertain Mr. Meanswell’s desperate plea, Sportacus went around LazyTown the same route they had yesterday, looking at all the sites he’d dismissed before. His feelings about the plots had not changed, if anything, they were emboldened when getting to look at them on his own without outer distractions, or expectations for that matter. Having brought two papers with him.

One, for the plot close by the ballpark.

The naked apple tree he found himself under seemed to almost mock him.

Perfect location, _almost_ perfect conditions. He should be downright grateful for the opportunity he’d been presented with, rather than bending over backwards just to find something to complain about. Much like the thankless brat he’d been called in his youth, never satisfied with what he had, his eyes always looking to the horizon.

In the long run it was sensible. A way to thoroughly integrate himself into the community, like any _proper_ LazyTowner should.

To once and for all cease his aimless vagrant ways.

The children would love it as well…

And then the other paper he’d brought.

One last stop, just to make sure.

Sportacus needed to work on his strides and technique in uphill anyway. Now that he knew what the terrain looked like and he took off in the direction of the LazyTown Great Lake.

He’d have to replace the soles with something with more traction if this would be the way he’d traverse regularly, yet, as his feet carried him up the precarious slope he felt oddly excited. This should be as good as any opportunity to get the lay of the land and break the bad habit of only exercising in fast flat terrain. Hills could take you to some of the most beautiful places, and this here was one that he should’ve discovered the joy of long ago.

More than halfway up the top he stopped to look around himself, taking out the folded document of highlighted notes and attached map. They, his company that was, hadn’t had much time or energy to explore the area properly yesterday. Ms. Busybody had however gone through the pains of summarising the cadastre for him. Heavily implying that she wanted to so see him once he’d surveyed it on his own.

Should he start with exploring the periphery? According to the map the plot started at the bend that he’d already passed below where the pavement transitioned into gravel and mud. And edged by the sides by municipally owned land and beach side on the other side.

The map showed where the electric grid ran and ended. He still didn’t quite understand how it all worked with the electricity area or supply, he’d never had to think of things like that, seeing as he’d produced his own with peddle driven generators… Another reason to have the FlyPod fixed up.

Then there was the water. The well itself was marked up on the map and somewhere at the side of the hill facing the lake, however, there were the symbols he’d had explained to him as the indications of the tank and drain field as well, among other things he’d never had to bother with before. Moving in the direction of the northern side of the hill and towards a growth of trees and shrubbery, he followed the map.

Now then… This wasn’t on the map? Was it?

The metre high marker stuck up out of the ground in striped yellow and black so not to miss the cover of a manhole at the side of the hill, just at the edge of the grove of trees beginning. It had to be an access point to the wastewater system that Ms. Busybody had mentioned when they first visited the area. It _did_ follow in the direction of the diagram.

The round metal cover was less than half a metre in diameter, just enough for a full grown adult to enter for inspection if needed. The markings and symbols bore a resemblance to some that Sportacus had seen earlier in town, with the town insignia at the centre and small ‘ _R’s_ ’ around the very edge. ‘ _Retic_ ’ perhaps? It would make sense. Though it would be strange that an access point such as this wasn’t marked out. He was pretty sure he was still within the border of the land. Soon to be _his_ , Sportacus thought, his lips turning upward as he put the papers back into his pocket and turned to resume the climb up to the top from the side.

There it was again, the platform surrounded by a sea of morning fog.

Any doubt he had was wiped away. No, this was the spot, truly.

And he started doing acrobatic exercises on the concrete platform, his mind already starting to draw up possibilities. Sure there was the distance he no longer could cover by dropping out into the air. However, he would most likely spend most of his time in town anyway, and if he was needed while up here, then there was other ways to get down speedily.

He ended up sitting cross-legged at the very centre, rocking back and forth, and grinning giddily as he saw the mist slowly withdraw from the town below him.

Though most was still obscured by fog, he could still somewhat make it out by its sheer size alone across town.

Robbie’s billboard.

Sportacus smile fell and he swallowed, the feeling of unease he’d felt before his morning workout creeping back.

This needed to be addressed, one way or the other.

* * *

Sportacus had since long suspected that the man must have a circadian rhythm sleep disorder. Most likely brought on, if not further exaggerated, by his underground haunt depriving him of natural daylight. Coming from the northern hemisphere, Sportacus was himself familiar with the physical consequences and the utter importance of keeping regular sleep schedules, both during the extreme summer and winter months. Regardless, Sportacus hoped that it would be in his favour and that Robbie would be awake despite the odd hour.

It had been several days now since anyone had seen the local villain, Sportacus figured as he pushed open the door of the faux mansion of the billboard, knowing full well that he could’ve walked around it instead.

Sportacus wasn’t entirely sure why, but his heart was in his throat. This shouldn’t be such an ordeal, really.

It’s only Robbie, after all.

They knew each other. Well, knew _of_ each other by now anyway.

Tentatively, Sportacus knocked on the lid of the true entrance of his villain’s lair, once, twice, without receiving any response from the other side. Not too surprising, really. The chance that Robbie would be awake was very slim, heck, Sportacus might interrupt what little rest the man get with his unsolicited visit.

“Robbie?”

No periscope, no hoarse scathing voice sounding from below.

Yet, he decided to try the lid. Knowing beforehand how heavy it was, even he himself had had to put some effort into it in the past and marvelled at how Robbie could open it on a semi-daily basis. The man did have a surprisingly good explosive strength, Sportacus has to give him that, although close to no stamina or endurance.

This time it did not budge at all. It was locked tight shut.

Go figure.

There was a mixed sense of disappointment and relief at the same time.

He _could_ force it open, if he truly wanted to, that is. Which he didn’t. Breaking and entering was completely uncalled for, and not in his way of manner, at all.

Half hoping for, half against, that someone cognisant would be on the other side, he found himself sliding down the side to sit down and rest his back against the cool metal of the cylinder and say, “hi, Robbie,” and realising how utterly inane it sounded the moment the empty greeting was out of his mouth. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” Saying that they’d missed him might actually be a blatant lie, seeing as no one else of the locals had expressed any loss of the long gangly villain.

Sportacus would be better off penning a letter to stick to the opening for Robbie to find later on his own. That way he might actually get it.

“Well… It looks like I’m moving into town.” He rested his head against the metal, adding, sounding almost droll in his own ears, “don’t worry, it’s not like we will become neighbours. I just thought that you would like to know… It might ruin your view somewhat.”

He didn’t know where to go from there. Things were the way they were now. And whatever there was left unsaid, he’d rather say to the other’s face in person.

A pale long face, with bright eyes too wide.

A chill went down his spine that was unrelated to the sweat cooling on his face and the general cold creeping through his clothes.

Was Robbie even there under his very feet? Or was Sportacus just speaking to the empty air, addressing the nothing.

There was this uncanny feeling, that he might as well be speaking to a headstone, and this time he did physically shudder.

What on earth was he doing?!

“Damn it, Robbie!” he swore loud and slammed the flat of his hand against the surface, instantly regretting it. His own disturbed sleep pattern was getting to him, compromising his whole composure. “I just want to talk.”

With just the tiniest bit of reluctance, he stood back up, feeling the course surface of the rust and what was left of the flaking paint coating the lid under his fingertips.

‘ _I miss you_.’ That’s what he wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat and he found himself mouth them wordlessly. He’d been mostly counting on that Robbie couldn't nor hadn’t heard a word he’d said thus far anyway.

This had been a bad idea. If anything, the only thing he’d managed to accomplish was making himself feel more unstrung. All worked up for nothing. For all Sportacus knew, Robbie might be out of town. Giving that interview and finally getting the long sought recognition of his peers.

Good for him.

No one could say that Sportacus didn’t try at least.

* * *

“I must say that I agree with Trixie; seeing you all covered up is somewhat strange,” Ms. Busybody said after letting Sportacus into her home. Although her hair had been released of the spools and styled into her usual updo, her face was still bare of makeup and a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“I’m only trying to set a good example,” Sportacus replied.

“And you weren’t before?”

“There’s always room for improvement for everyone, even me.”

“Now you’re sounding almost conceited.”

“I would never.”

At that she gave him an incredulous smile, looking entertained by the short banter. “Would you like some tea?”

“Water, please,” he replied and followed her into the kitchen.

“I could set the table again, have you even had breakfast yet? The postman said he saw you making your way around LazyTown before the crack of dawn.”

Post on a Sunday? “No, no, please, you don’t have to trouble yourself,” Sportacus answered quickly and shook his head.

“If you say so,” Ms. Busybody said and placed before him a tall glass of water she’d poured from the kitchen tap. Along with a banana. Sportacus mouth drew into a thin line. Fine then. He had actually eaten earlier, but there was no harm in a healthy snack, he supposed.

“Thank you,” he said.

She hummed and seated herself across her kitchen table, eyeing him. “Your injuries seem to heal nicely. I thought they were worse when I first saw them, I’m glad I was wrong. You must have an exceptionally good wound healing process and granulation tissue, too. Still, feel free to help yourself to the cupboard in the bathroom if you need anything, I’m sure you know which one.”

Sportacus involuntarily tensed up. “I…” They had been as bad as she’d thought, by human standards, that was. And they had healed up nicely. Too nicely from their viewpoint. He didn’t need to cover up the injuries from the fire, letting them finish healing in the open now that they were nothing more than dry patches and scabs. “Thank you,” he finished lamely, fighting the instinct to touch his left cheek.

Seeming to take his reaction as one of bashfulness, she nodded and continued, “so, you’ve decided on the lakeside hill? There’s no way for us to persuade you otherwise?”

“I don’t think so,” he smiled back at her.

“Pity,” she sighed. “The children had hoped that you would settle somewhere closer.”

“I know.”

“I assume you have some idea of what you want to do with the location, but I must ask again, you don’t have to live in town hall in the meanwhile. My offer to house you still stands.”

As much as Sportacus appreciated the offer, it was still not an option. Not one he would be comfortable with anyway. “That’s kind, but I prefer my current set up, for now.”

“Sportacus, I mean it, you don’t have to make things more difficult for yourself than necessary. Why you insist on this is beyond me.”

“Tell me, how long have you and Milford dated? It must be years now,” he countered, rolling the glass between his hands.

Ms. Busybody blinked in confusion. “Huh? I don’t see how that-”

“Have you ever considered moving in together?”

“Good heavens, no! For starters, he and I practically live in each other’s pockets at work,” she replied and waved her hand dismissively. “Now, don’t get me wrong, he _is_ very dear to me, but we are both… How should I put it? Self-reliant? I, myself, have now lived alone for several years after one failed marriage too many, and come to prefer it that way. We meet on a daily basis, take joint vacations and live close by each other if we would fancy anything more intimate or domestic. Is that not enough? We are perfectly happy with the arrangement we have. Believe it or not, but these types of romantic partnerships are not uncommon at our age. I deeply enjoy my _me time_ , you see.”

“Then,” Sportacus smiled and cocked his head, “that answers your own question, doesn’t it?”

Ms. Busybody gave him an owlish look, knitting her brow before she said, “oh,” the implications dawning. “Oh, I do believe it does. I didn’t think that you were that…”

“Independent?”

“I was going to say withdrawn, but yes. I always pegged you as an extrovert.”

“I don’t really believe in that, but like you, I value my _me time_ , so to speak,” he said and finished off the glass of water.

“Fine, I can understand where you’re coming from with that. But should you need anything, my door’s open.”

“About that,” he said. “I do have an idea of what to do with the location, and I wondered if you’ve looked into what I should do with the payment of the shi… The scrap metal.”

“That I have, dear, don’t worry. They were willing to assist in opening an account in your name, despite your foreign status and lack of proper documents. Which I got some to assist with. You can take care of the rest in person tomorrow.

She’d managed all that already? For him? “Thank you, Bessie.” Not sure what to so with himself at that very moment. “That means a lot.”

Ms. Busybody nodded and gave him a blithe smile, soon changing into a more engaged and inquisitive one he was more used to and he knew already beforehand what she was going to ask. “So, you have a plan for the hill, you say? Do tell?

“It’s…” he started. “It’s nothing entirely concrete, not yet. I need to see what’s actually possible and… Costs.”

“I could get you a couple of estimations from local firms, if you’d like,” she offered.

Sportacus shook his head. “No need, thank you. I think I already know some people to contact and ask.”

* * *

The ink had dried on the deed laid out on the desk before him, signed and done.

He’d shook Mr. Spoilero’s hand at the LazyTown bank with the promise from the man that only bore a passing resemblance of his son, that everything should be processed and done by noon and a small plastic card in his hand with his face smiling up at himself. You weren’t supposed to smile, but it had been hard not to, in his own defence.

There was another card as well, one that he was glad that he hadn’t thrown away.

He played with the cord, twinning and untwinning the coils as he waited.

“Shop ‘til You Drop Construction Department,” a familiar voice answered.

“I thought you said that HQ handles the orders and paperwork?” Sportacus said, wondering if they’d recognise _his_ voice in turn.

Turned out that they did. “Oh shi- I _knew_ you’d call sooner or later!” Reeds exclaimed on the other end. “You still interested? I can send you on to recruitment and applications.”

“No thanks, I’m… I’m actually interested in an estimation?”

“I’ll be damned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone needs a nap...
> 
> Believe me when I say, I did not intend for any OCs when I started out. But here they come anyway.


	10. Mathletics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt. chapter title: The Imperial System Strikes Back

“Hi, Sportacus!” greeted Pixel, shortly followed by an, “uhh… What are you doing?”

Sportacus looked up at the upside-down figure of the boy peering curiously down at him. He dropped the pencil out of his mouth, still in a handstand and said, “homework.”

Pixel’s eyebrows rose under the visor. “You? Homework?”

“Yes. Sort of,” he replied and tipped back to sit down on the park bench, surrounded by books and sheets of papers. He had been charged with a personal assignment of sorts.

“Uhuh,” Pixel noised at the lack of further explanation.

“School’s over for today?” He’d lost track of time out there. The sun was high and warm on his skin and if Sportacus had to, he’d estimate it somewhere around three in the afternoon.

“We’re _supposed_ to do our homework together and then play in the soccer field.”

Sportacus raised a brow and tilted his head. “Supposed to?”

“I do it on my own,” the boy explained with a measured shrug. “Thought I’d do it out here instead of home. Get some fresh air, or something.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” Any motivation the otherwise room dwelling youth found in spending time out in the outdoors was a good one.

“What about you? You look like you’re doing more push ups than… That. Can you even think clearly if your blood flood to your head?”

“Moving helps me focus better,” Sportacus answered truthfully.

Pixel snorted, “you and our teacher are of two completely different mindsets then. I think Ziggy is going to climb out the window out of protest if he’s asked to sit still one more time.”

Sportacus couldn’t really picture Ziggy doing something that drastic. Although Ziggy was a fidgety child and with a sort of nervous energy to him that Sportacus himself was personally familiar with, he was more inclined to believe that the girls would rebel in that sort of manner if they felt treated unfairly. “I wasn’t always the best student myself,” he confessed. Trying to figure a way to make him sit still had been a losing battle for his own teachers as well, in most classes. “But I liked reading and I did also have a knack for numbers.”

“What, like math?”

“And physics. Especially if you can apply it to the real world, then it isn’t so bad.”

Pixel had come closer to look at the books and scattered papers. The library had had some community-college level textbooks that met Sportacus’ requirements. “Is that what you’re doing now? Math and physics?”

Partly. There was as well a higher education textbook of Architecture Economics somewhere under the mound of papers and one of the main reasons he’d hit a snag and started exercising to clear his head, or fill it with blood if so be it, anything to help. “Yes, it’s good to go back and refresh old subjects. The brain isn’t a muscle, but it needs exercising as well,” he said with a chuckle.

The boy nodded, seeming to weigh something over in his head and thumbing the strap of his school bag while eyeing Sportacus’ notes and formulas. “Hey… You don’t think you could help me? With _my_ homework?”

Sportacus stared mutely. Pixel was a prodigy, the fact that he needed help, much less so actually ask for it with his homework, was unheard of. “Sure. With what?” he managed to ask and smile.

“With math, actually.”

“You need help with your math homework?” he said, just to be sure.

“Not so much homework than that they threw a random chapter at me,” Pixel muttered, “but yeah. The rest of the group aren’t at my level yet, and my parents are out of town. I like math and like you said, when, uh, it can be applied in real life. But I kinda need… The initial rundown. If you have time and want to, that is.”

“No, of course I’ll help,” Sportacus blurted out and cleared a spot beside him, shuffling his own work to the side. “Let me have a look and I’ll see what I can do.”

Pixel seated himself and took out a textbook that was indeed a couple of grades above his peers. Time did fly, Sportacus thought as he cast a glance over at the now eleven year old that searched for the chapter in question. However, this was what he recognised as years above Pixel’s grade material, in fact it was pretty much the same contents as the books he had borrowed for himself. How much was Pixel held back? If the small community school was housing both Ziggy the youngest, and Pixel the oldest in the same classroom?

“Okay, so I lied, it’s two chapters,” said Pixel, “but if I get help with this first one then I should be good.”

Sportacus took the textbook and tried to ensure the now jittery boy, “Pixel, it’s okay, I said that I would help.”

“Bet that not many come to ask you about scientific notations and projectile motion?”

Sportacus gave a low laugh, “no, I can’t say that they do.”

They came to him for many things, but nothing of this sort.

The revelation was strange, in a way, he thought as he guided Pixel and explained the parts the boy was uncertain about. This was the first time anyone asked him to help with anything of the intellectual matter.

* * *

“Have you told your parents how you feel about school?” Sportacus asked, having turned the question over and over in his head as he watched Pixel solve the exercises on his own now. The boy really just needed a rundown and he’d snapped up the design of the formulas in moments.

“Oh they know, alright,” answered Pixel. “They’ve spoken to the headmaster, too, but there’s not much else they can do right now. Maybe next semester, well, they suggest I try a private tutor. Something like that. I don’t know.”

“A tutor?”

“Taking some distance classes maybe. I don’t want to switch schools and travel to some other town. All my friends are here… But I know that I’m way ahead of them and the teachers here don’t really have time or even know themselves. I feel like I have to dumb myself down, you know?”

Sportacus did know.

“Anyway, my parents think it’s worth a shot and there are lots of other classes to try that might be fun,” Pixel said while he now wrote down the final numerical. “Just wondering, but, you’re bilingual, right?” he asked when he was done and had Sportacus looking the page over. “Do all people sound like you where you’re from?”

“Yes, and no,” he said. “Are you thinking of picking up a second language?”

“Maybe? I haven’t decided which one yet. I _was_ thinking of Chinese, but then Trixie looked funny at me when I asked what she thought.” There was an outdrawn silence as Pixel made a pinched expression. “Yeah, so turns out her mum’s family is from the Philippines?”

Sportacus was _not_ going to ask how that conversation had turned out. Aloud he made a “huh,” sound at the information.

“There, all done,” Pixel said and straightened up.

“You said that there were two chapters,” Sportacus reminded him.

“Fine,” Pixel rolled his eyes, “page one hundred and thirty three.”

Ah, projectile motion. “This is quite basic compared to what we went through earlier,” he noted.

“Yes, but then they threw frictional forces and air resistance at it without explaining,” Pixel complained. “I can’t really _see_ it before me, it’s just a wall of text.”

Sportacus grinned and asked, “how much of a visual learner are you?”

* * *

“Alright, I’m going to kick the soccer ball from this distance into the net on the other side, and we’re going to measure the arch and speed, okay?” Sportacus said, standing at the far end of the soccer field and Pixel by the side with his wrist band raised.

“I just realised that I could have this automatically calculated for me by the input alone.”

“That would be cheating,” Sportacus cautioned. “And you will not always have your gadgets.”

Pixel raised his head to where Sportacus stood and gave him an uneasy look. “Like you?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “Okay, start!” And he kicked the ball in a perfect arch, the ball hitting the inside of the goal at the other end. A, by his standards, loose and measured kick. This was more so for presentation.

“Three seconds exactly.”

He should’ve kicked it even looser. “So, I just kicked this ball and it went up and peaked in our Y-axis at eleven point two and the distance is exactly ninety met-”

“Actually,” Pixel interjected, “its twelve and zero point seven, and ninety eight and one point three,” in a matter of factly voice.

Sportacus couldn’t be _that_ off in his own eye measurement. “Sorry?”

“Oh, you mean in metres! Yeah, you’re actually pretty spot on then, cool,” Pixel said, then added, “uhm, why are you using the Metric system?”

“Because that’s what I’m used to and taught,” he explained.

“My teacher wants it in Imperial.”

Ah. Of course.

And this here is why Pixel had discovered Sportacus doing handstands next to a pile of notes.

Truth be told, he felt a little crestfallen. He’d looked forward to explaining the science behind one of the mathematical rules that came naturally to him. “I don’t know if I’ll be of much help then,” he told the boy and went to collect the ball again.

Something seemed to dawn on Pixel and he went back to the bench where he’d found Sportacus. Looking at the notes again. This time closer and discerning its actual contents. “That’s what you were trying to do, wasn’t it? You’re trying to convert measurements!”

“I was, yes.”

“What’s it for?”

“A breakdown of the measurements of… My new house, I suppose I should call it.” At that he looked down at the ball in his hands, feeling somewhat flustered. It felt like a foreign word in itself. “I have a rough idea of the Imperial system, but not enough to break it down and combine with weight and mass.”

“Do you have a calculator here somewhere?”

“No,” he said.

“Shut up,” the boy gaped.

“Pixel,” Sportacus chided lightly.

“Sorry, but, like,” Pixel continued, “you’re saying this is all mental and written arithmetic?”

He wasn’t quite following. “Yes?”

“I mean, you speak in a second language and you’re doing all of _this_ ,” he waved a slip of paper in his hand, one containing the calculated dimensions and material consumption, “in your head!”

At that Sportacus had to chuckled and shake his head. “It’s not that special, Pixel. I’m used to calculate without a calculator.”

“Still,” Pixel said. “Had I known… Hey, so, could you, maybe, help me more times? You’re better than my teachers.”

“Sure, Pixel. If you need me to.” It had been nice to help in a different way. A nice change. “But I don’t know if I can help you with this one. I can explain how the formula work but not the actual values.”

“No, it’s alright, I can do both, actually. So you can explain to me in metrics. And, you know, I can afterwards convert…” He looked closer at one of the sketches next to the numbers. “Is that a shoe box? Heh, I see, of course…”

Sportacus smiled and juggled the soccer ball in his hands. “How about we help each other then?”

Pixel gave a toothy grin. “Yes, thank you.”

“So,” Sportacus continued where they had left off with Pixel’s own assignment, “we have the trajectory of the soccer ball and distance already. This is the basics in projectile motion, now we’re going to take into account that there’s a headwind of one point six metres per second.”

“Which would be rounded off to three point six miles per hour,” Pixel supplied and nodded, looking at his wrist band to confirm the numbers.

The sun was now low enough to touch the distant treetops. “What are you two doing?” Stephanie asked, closely followed by the rest of the children coming trailing after.

Sportacus and Pixel looked up from where they crouched over a mapwork of papers in the soccer field, and said in unison, “homework.”

* * *

It was somewhat strange seeing them out of their helmets and industrial working clothes, dressed instead in flannels and blue jeans. However, the twins were just as striking with an imposing air to them as they drew closer to the hilltop. “Hi,” Sportacus waved and greeted them when they were close enough that he could actually tell them apart.

“Hi, yourself! Nice view you got up here,” Reeds said, coming up the trailing path with Gibs a couple of steps behind him, making their way up in a steady pace and not seeming out of breath in the slightest. “I know some people that would give an arm and a leg for a place like this.”

“Pretty steep, though,” added Gibs, giving their surroundings a more critical eye. “You want this paved or levelled into steps? Because if our crew come up this way with the equipment then this might pose a serious safety hazard.”

That was true. Sportacus would have to give that one a thought. “I was surprised that it was you answering the phone,” Sportacus directed towards Reeds. “I thought you two only supervised?”

“On most commissions, that might be the case.” Reeds gave him a crooked smile, “Gibs may claim to be the handsome one, but _I’m_ the smart one.”

“Huh?”

“It means that he thinks that he’s better than the rest of us because he gets to play desk jockey and fill out forms sometimes,” said Gibs and reached out a large hand to shake Sportacus’. “Nice seeing you again. Usually we don’t do personal visits beforehand either, but we were too damn curious when you contacted about hiring our services, rather than joining. Anyway, thanks for the rough blueprint and measurements, I didn’t think you’d be so thorough. Mostly we get a flimsy sketch or worse,” Gibs grimaced, “a _vision_. Hate those, it’s just codeword for that they have a lofty idea but refuse to put in the mental groundwork of the process.”

“I wanted to be sure everything was right.”

“No doubt,” said Reeds, “you went down into four decimals. Now, if we’re to talk shop. Considering your budget and request, I would suggest a prefab. A steel framework and insulated sandwich panels.”

Sportacus knit his brow. “Isn’t that cheating?”

“Look, if we were going to do one of the usual temporary productions, then we’d already put up a finished product by now. We’re professionals, this thing is supposed to last and to live in. Prefabricated frame houses are the norm. Just because it’s produced somewhere else instead of built from ground up on site, doesn’t mean it can’t be high quality.”

“I’m still not sure,” Sportacus said.

Reeds shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted to build an industrial steel box, not I.”

“And windows,” said Gibs, “that was a lot of floor to ceiling glass panes, sheesh.”

“I like having a lot of light, and I do like the surrounding view very much.”

This seemed to somewhat amuse Gibs. “They all say that, but never realise that windows work both ways. Suddenly everyone can see your business. Good thing you don’t have any neighbours up here, so it’s just the wildlife that’ll get a heart attack every time you get out of the shower.” He climbed the concrete platform and peered out over the town, shielding his eyes from the low sun hitting the side of his face. “Unless you got some feckless locals with binoculars, that is.”

There was only one that came to Sportacus’ mind, but he was pretty sure that the billboard was far away enough that Sportacus didn’t need to worry.

“Anyway,” Reeds continued, “this base seem to be in good condition and is also why we wanted to take a look for ourselves. It’ll need some reinforcement, but you’ll still save a fortune, and time as well. Then we can start assembling the framework.”

Sportacus nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. A lion’s share of the money he had received would go to this. Less for his FlyPod, but still more than he initially had thought he’d get for the wreckage. “How long would this take?” Sportacus had already surrendered to the idea that he’d be stuck in town hall the entire spring and camp outdoors in the summer, but it would be nice to have something, something of his own, come autumn.

Gibs stroked his chin. “Using our special blend the reinforced foundation should set in hours than days. So, if we get started this week it should be done by next Tuesday.”

“A week?”

“We’re taking this in a slower pace,” said Reeds, either jesting or actually genuinely thinking that Sportacus was displeased. “We want this to be done proper, after all.”

“That… That sounds great.”

The twins gave him wide smiles as they both shook his hand, agreeing to meet up the very next day.

Nine minutes past eight, Sportacus laid on his back in the narrow bed of the overnight room and tossed the mail cylinder up and down to catch. Staring up at the ceiling and not really sure what to feel or think.

One week.

It struck him that it had also been exactly one week since he’d moved into this dingy little room after losing all but the clothes on his back.

One week since the fire.

One week since he’d seen Robbie.

One week since…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pure self indulgence and letting Sportacus bond with one of the more unlikely kids. (eg. Neeeeeerds!) Many like to picture Robbie in this role, but the guy never finished elementary school, meanwhile Sportacus is the one that draws up equations on the freakin' fly. 
> 
> Also that I switch to the metric system whenever I'm writing from Sportacus' view getting addressed. 
> 
> Also, also, yah, return of the Demolition Duo.


	11. Parental Discretion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter and more dialogue than you can shake a stick at.

“My hero,” Ms. Busybody laughed breathlessly, still finding her bearings from nearly falling headfirst onto the hard concrete walkway leading up to town hall, one of her high heeled shoes stuck in the entrance gratings at the top of the front steps. It would’ve been a nasty fall, had not Sportacus caught her just in the nick of time.

“Are you alright?”

Sportacus had already found a couple of creative ways of getting down to help whoever needed it, especially after the workers had cleared up some of the terrain for their own vehicles. But this time, it had been sheer luck that he’d still been in town to react to his crystal in time for something this immediate.

“Could be much worse.” She looked at the stuck shoe and saw that the heel was torn apart and sighed, “or maybe not. Those were new, and expensive.”

“But you’re alright yourself?” Sportacus pressed on.

“I suppose ruined shoes are better than ruined shoes _and_ a neck collar and broken wrist,” Ms. Busybody agreed, though her voice sounded somewhat reluctant. “Years in the same workplace and of course I get stuck on that grating _now_ ,” she muttered to herself sourly.

“Is everything okay, ma’am?!” one of the workers by the truck on the road shouted their way. The one that Sportacus had guided through town when Ms. Busybody had tripped.

“Yes, everything is fine, thank you,” she replied in their direction and they seemed to take her at face value. She watched the workers get back on the truck and drive up towards the hill, Sportacus’ hill, to start putting up the sandwich walls now that the framework and rafters were in place.

They’d been at it for three days now and Sportacus was still in awe at how fast they worked once the reinforced base had set.

“Haven’t I seen those gentlemen somewhere before?” Ms. Busybody asked once they were out of view.

“They’ve done some construction work around the area earlier,” Sportacus replied. It was the truth. The fact that the employees of the Shop ‘til You Drop Construction Department had been to LazyTown under the ordering of Robbie Rotten was not something that Ms. Busybody needed to be made privy of, though.

Ms. Busybody nodded her head and pursed her red lips in thought. “That do make sense, now that you mention it… I suppose that’s how you knew of them?”

“Yes, they were the ones to help take apart the remains.”

“Of your ship?”

Wasn’t much else he could refer to, he thought. Sportacus hummed in affirmation.

Ms. Busybody took off her one remaining shoe and tugged the ruined one free before she returned inside the public building. “Could you spare a moment, now that I got your attention?” her voice carried past the threshold and Sportacus saw no reason to object, and followed her into her office where he found her putting on a pair of what he recognised as ballerina pumps. The one time he sees her donning flats and it’s _still_ bad for her feet and overall health.

“Was there something you wanted?” he asked.

“Yes, actually,” she replied and started to rummage through her drawers. “We have barely seen you at all these past days, which is understandable, but there’s something I thought I should share with you.”

“What is that?”

She cast a quick look around them, eyeing the open office door. “Could you close that, please?”

Sportacus did as asked and turned back to her. Apparently this was something of import. “Bessie?”

“The _Villain Weekly_ came earlier this week. You’ve been so busy with the construction work I haven’t known how to tell you this in person, but, well…” She retrieved the accursed tabloid and flipped through it, and handed it over to Sportacus who was mentally bracing himself.

Another article about his airship meeting its untimely demise. The picture they’d used in their last issue was still attached but thankfully downsized. In fact, the article as a whole took up barely half a page this time. A more condensed reasonable take on the incident, rather than the endless run-on sentences and hyperbolic writing. There was a newer addition, however, and of which he suspected was the reason why Ms. Busybody was showing him this again.

‘ _Villain Weekly has still been unable to get a hold of Mr. Rotten to get an official statement, which is peculiar in itself since no self-respecting villain would turn down an opportunity for monologing and gloating. Not a good look for Mr. Rotten right now. Sources are unconfirmed, but the possibility that Number Ten has taken revenge appears unlikely -yet. Or Mr. Rotten is merely plotting his next step of driving away this boy scout of a “hero” once and for all._ ’

Why did everyone insist on that Sportacus would seek out retribution?

“Robbie is still laying low, I take it,” Ms. Busybody said in a dry tone and took the magazine from him when he was done and stuffed it back in a drawer.

“I’m not sure he’s even in LazyTown,” Sportacus said. “The entrance of his lair is locked.”

Ms. Busybody tilted her head. “You went to his lair?”

Sportacus silently swore, this was the last thing he needed right now, that the gossiper herself had fodder. He could only pray that she had enough discretion to not make more of it than it truly was.

“Thank you for showing me this, Bessie. But I need to get back up to help at the construction,” he said, evading the question all together.

“Of course. Don’t be a stranger,” Ms. Busybody chirped, “the children are getting angsty to see you. And curious, I might add.”

They were not the only ones, he suspected.

Sportacus flashed her a smile, already halfway out the door. “I’ll remember that. Bye!”

* * *

The pair of supervisors had been right, it really did go that fast once they got started.

They had as well supplied him with a blue hard hat just as they’d hinted at much earlier, though he doubted that this was the initial reason for it. And Sportacus had asked if they had spray painted it, the added stripes being why, which had earned him a sharp grin from Gibs and a playful ‘ _maybe_ ’. So that was a yes.

Although Sportacus’ duty as a hero was somewhat compromised, it was still nice to be able to help out with the construction as developer on site and make himself useful. To not having to feel like he was in the way. However, the actual task as overseeing and supervising the smaller crew was assigned to the twins.

So far, things had run smoothly. The water pipes had been replaced underneath the base before they’d reinforced it and they’d started wrapping up the assembling of the framework for the outer and inner walls and the second level now.

There was a disagreement, however.

“The reinforcement mesh is already accounted for in the billing, plus they’re like six bucks a piece even if they weren’t. Better utilize them than let it go to waste,” Reeds tried to convince Sportacus, the two of them standing at the side of the building to be, the exact spot where they had started it all. “I’m not trying to rip you off here.”

“I didn’t say that,” Sportacus replied, eyeing the pile of mesh left over from reinforcing the foundation. “I’m not so sure that it’s needed, is all.”

“It might be, because I don’t want to have a call later from my bosses that you broke through a wall with a tennis ball, or whatever.”

Sportacus laughed at that. “And why would I do that?” True, he had been leery about the sandwich walls to begin with, but surely they couldn’t be _that_ flimsy?

To that Reeds had a reply already ready, pointing directly at Sportacus almost accusatory. “Because I just heard that _you’re_ the reason we found the pyramid we put up moved two steps to the left and facing the wrong direction when we came back for it. The one _I_ nearly hurt myself assembling.”

Okay, that was fair.

“It took us a crew of thirty five hedge folks to put together and then disassemble that monstrosity, traps and all. And you apparently used it for _bicep curls_.”

That was not entirely accurate. The kids had been trapped inside of it. As seemed the theme for both them and he himself. But he reacted to something else that Reeds said. “Hedge folks?” Sportacus asked.

“You know what I mean. Sounds better than half-breeds or mongrels, don’t it?”

The in-between. “I thought that was a term for magic practitioners?” He knew that he’d heard something similar to it somewhere, though the source eluded him.

“Some of the descendant do. But others, like us, have other _attributes_. And correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t strike me as the _magicky_ type either.” Reeds rubbed his brow under the hard hat, the more familiar red one he had donned once again, and sighed. “Look, I once wrecked the exterior wall to our living room while roughhousing my own brother, and we were only _fourteen_ ,” he deadpanned. “Now, look me in the eye and tell me the truth; do you know your own strength?”

Sportacus now understood what the other was getting at. “I do,” he said just as gravely. The power to move mountains. If he had leverage, or didn’t hold back, that was.

“So? Reinforced walls or not?”

Sportacus sighed, conceding, “better be safe than sorry, I suppose.”

“Alright.” Reeds cupped his mouth and shouted to the crew, “we’re keeping the mesh for the walls!”

Those close enough gave waves of acknowledgement and Sportacus gathered the pile of welded steel bars to carry to where the crew was unloading the rest of the building material and walls.

While they were somewhat still on the subject about the origin of the crew, and in extent, its clients that he had been speculating about since he’d first found out, one in specific at that, Sportacus couldn’t help but ask, “hey, I was wondering, is Robbie Rotten a descendant? Like you?”

Reeds gave him a questioning look of his own as he adjusted the mass over Sportacus’ head. “You’re asking if he’s hedge?” he asked and stepped away. “I thought you of all people would know. I can’t tell for sure what he is, but he’s about as unhinged and labile as a full-blooded faery. Dude’s a whack job, that’s for sure.”

Sportacus grit his teeth and decided to voice what he’d thought when he’d first met the twins. “I don’t like talking behind people’s backs like that.”

“Okay, but _you’re_ the one who asked me about him, remember that,” Reeds replied matter of factly.

He did have a point. It was hypocritical of Sportacus. “There’s still no need for name calling,” Sportacus argued. “I asked if you knew, since you’ve worked for him.” In extension anyway. “I don’t care much for bad-mouthing.”

Reeds gave off a low laugh, it sounded unkind in Sportacus’ ears. “You’re living in a small countryside town. Gossip is any village’s past time activity. Hell, it’s basically a sport. Even if you think that you’re above it because you’re not actively engaging, you can be sure that the good townsfolks down there have a lot to say about you whenever they get the chance. You better get used to it if you’re going to last.”

Sportacus remembered Ms. Busybody’s eagerness whenever she was presented with any new material and her own allegation of people talking. About him. About him and Robbie, and whatever that implied. He didn’t say anything in reply and carried the reinforcement mesh to the rest of the building material.

“You’re angry,” Reeds stated, trailing behind and seeming to take the silence as one of vexation.

“No,” Sportacus said to ensure him. “A little disappointed, yes. But I’m not angry.”

“I’m still somewhat fascinated that you’d take a guy that’s tried to kill you in defence, but that’s none of my business. But you should be careful, seriously. When I say that he acts like a fullblood like you, I mean it.”

“Like me?”

“We all saw you grab a plywood plank yesterday and use it like a stikboard to get down the hillside when that insignia of yours flashed,” Reeds countered. “I’m agreeing with Gibs here, for once; man, you’re crazy.”

That being one of the more creative ways Sportacus had tried out to get down to the town, yes. In his own defence it had worked but more so due to the still damp upturned soil and grass and he couldn’t help but snort in amusement. It had to look insane from an outside spectator’s view.

Reeds continued, “as for Rotten, I’m not sure, none of us are really, but we suspect that he’s one of those magic practitioners I mentioned earlier.”

Sportacus set down his burden, allowing himself to be assisted by Reeds and nodded. “That would make sense, thank you,” he said aloud. It would indeed make sense of a lot of the things he had experienced in relation to the strange yet intriguing man.

There was that whistling again, Sportacus had started to recognise it as a means of communication. Short bursts were in acknowledgement of orders. Two long to call general attention. A long whistle like this meant ‘ _incoming_ ’.

“Now what?” Reeds groused and stalked in the direction of where they spotted Gibs gesturing at them.

Sportacus caught a flash of pink amongst the greenery and knew instantly what it was about.

* * *

Seemed like Ms. Busybody’s comment about the curiosity of the children had been more of a premonition of what to come.

In all fairness, it had just been a matter of time before they had decided to go and see the progress for themselves and Sportacus really should have seen this coming. So far, as far as _he_ was aware, Pixel was the only one who knew of Sportacus’ plans after having helped him with the measurements. Not that it was any great secret in itself and if Pixel chose to share with his friends then that was out of Sportacus’ control. The skeleton assembled could only give a vague idea of what would hopefully be.

For lack of better words, they found Gibs in an honest to goodness standoff with Stephanie, the young girl with her fists on her hips and chest puffed out, against a grown muscular man almost towering over her. The appearance of Gibs barely fazing her and Sportacus was unsure if he should be proud, or concerned, for her.

And she wasn’t alone either. Behind her stood the rest of the townschildren gathered. Soon enough they spotted Sportacus approaching and they broke out in loud cheers.

“Sportacus!” Ziggy cried out and lounged himself at Sportacus who caught him in pure reflex and lifted him to rest on his hip despite the boy’s age now.

“Is that your kid?” someone to his right asked.

Sportacus blinked in confusion. Looking down at Ziggy in his arms and back up at the workers. _His_?! “I… No?”

“You sure?” someone else asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Looks like you, though. You really sure?”

Sportacus huffed, less amused by the teasing now but tried to keep a humorous expression, “I would be the first to know.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure that would be his mum,” one of the women this time commented, which earned a couple of chuckles.

Ziggy giggled to himself.

Rolling his eyes, Sportacus let Ziggy back to the ground, though still keeping a hand on his shoulder. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, directing it to Gibs.

“Trying to make sure that no one trespasses and gets hurt,” Gibs answered and looked over his shoulder at his brother and Sportacus.

“They’re not really trespassing,” Sportacus said. “They’re with me.”

“That’s what I said!” Stephanie argued, glaring up at Gibs.

“Sorry, but this is a working site,” Gibs addressed to Sportacus and turned to look down at Stephanie again. “You’re not allowed here, because it is not safe.”

“According to the conduct of risk management process to eliminate or reduce risks to children in the workplace,” Pixel read from his wrist band, appearing to cite the words. “Employers, self-employed people and those in control of workplaces are responsible for ensuring, as far as practicable, the safety and health of visitors including children at the workplace.”

Gibs made a wry face. “Yes, but those are general and _our_ way to ensure your safety, _as practicable_ ,” he added, “is the requirement that minors have to be under parental supervision on our workplaces. So, no, not unless you’re accompanied by a parent or guardian, for your own safety.”

Stephanie replied, “Sportacus is our guardian.”

Gibs snorted, “not your _legal_ guardian, kiddo.”

Sportacus decided to add in at that point, “that would be your Uncle Milford, Stephanie.”

“I see,” she muttered more so to herself than the adults.

“Nice try, though,” Gibs said and cast Sportacus a meaning glance, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Aww, come on,” Ziggy whined and looked up at Sportacus with as much pleading as he could muster into his small round face, “we promise we’ll be good.”

“I…”

Reeds leaned in and said on a low voice, “can we have a word with you?” and gestured for Gibs to join.

“Sorry kids, I’ll be back in a second.”

“It’s nice and all, and we’re not saying that you can’t keep them safe while they’re here,” Reeds said the moment they were past the parts of the roof still waiting to be assembled, “but _we_ need to follow regulations, just in case _anything_ would happen. One hurt kid and it’s our heads on the chopping block.”

Funny, considering that Sportacus had had to save said kids from the very products the twins had set up in and around LazyTown in the past. “I understand.” He didn’t like it, but he had to respect the decision.

Gibs clapped a big hand on Sportacus’ shoulder and said, “it’s no fun being the boring adult in the situation, I get it. My kids are a handful at the best of times and some of those times they hate me, but it’s for their own good.”

Gibs was a parent? Sportacus was to ask when he was stopped by his crystal warning and the sound of Trixie’s excited voice saying, “cool, check this out!” and he flipped over to where they’d left the children to wait.

If Sportacus had an argument for vouching for the children to stay, then that was annulled the moment he extracted the heavy-duty brad nailer from Trixie’s hands and saved her from shooting herself. A flash second as the nailer went off and it was over. The four centimetre long brad nail now embedded into the ground and a tear in Sportacus’ pant leg where it had gone through, and grazed his own burning flesh.

A shallow cut, but Trixie’s eyes had grown large at the sight of the trickle of blood before he’d gotten it covered with a sterile gauze that he'd been given by a worker coming running with a first aid kit, and hid it from the rest of the children.

* * *

Somewhat shamefaced now, the group of children resolutely looked at their feet, even Stephanie’s boldness from earlier had deflated.

“It’s not safe here for you right now,” Sportacus repeated at them. “I’ll see you back in town later, okay?”

It was received as expected.

“This is so not fair,” Ziggy groused.

“Yeah,” Stingy added with an offended sniff. “I’m going to go with _my_ stuff and play at the swings instead, since we're not welcome here.”

“Nice going, Trixie,” Pixel said and to which the girl bumped her elbow into him as she passed to walk before them with a huff.

Stephanie trailed behind, casting an eye up to the skeleton of steel and concrete, before saying to Sportacus, “Uncle Milford wanted me to tell you that the hangar is cleared up for your plane, by the way.”

“Thank you, Stephanie,” he smiled at her.

Her own smile was somewhat dampened, disappointed either at Sportacus or her friends, or the whole situation in general, it was hard to tell.

Either way, it made Sportacus feel awful as he watched them start to trail back down the hill. Not the same way they had come up from, as he noted the sign of trampled grass in the direction of the tree grove. Probably from exploring the surroundings on their own before they had braved to enter the building site itself.

Unfortunately, that was not the last of it.

“Hold up,” Gibs put out a hand in front of Stingy, “I think you got something there that’s most definitely not _yours_.”

Stingy glared and withdrew a spanner and yardstick from his pockets, making Sportacus silently wince, and grumbling sourly before jogging to catch up with his friends.

“Sticky fingers on that one,” Reeds mused when they’d seen the townschildren disappear out of sight over the ridge.

“We’re working on that,” Sportacus said, feeling apologetic on behalf of the boy’s bad habit. “He’s come a long way since I first met him, though. He… He’s…” Sportacus didn’t really know how to put it, not without airing private matters. “…Not good with sharing,” he settled with.

“Let me guess,” Reeds said. “He’s an only child?”

“Yes.”

“Wonder what’s that’s like.”

Gibs snorted, “probably peaceful, as both our own folks and I can only dream of.”

Right, Gibs had mentioned children of his own and Sportacus had to ask, “how many do you have?”

“Two girls,” Gibs replied, adding, “twins.”

“Oh,” was all Sportacus said.

“Yep. Our dad and uncle are twins as well.”

Sportacus nodded. It was too much of a reoccurrence in their bloodline to be a mere coincidence then. Not necessarily magic, no, but definitely an _attribute_. “Do you think it’s because of your grandmother?”

“Could very well be. Or, who knows, might just be something in the water. We don’t have any cousins on that side of the tree and unless there’s going to be any divine intervention in the near future,” jabbing a thumb at Reeds at that, “then we’ll have to wait another generation to verify that theory.”

Reeds merely shrugged at his brother’s comment. “It’s just not for me.”

Gibs continued, “you sure got your work cut out for you with them, but I take it you’re not used to straight talking with your troublemakers. Don’t worry about it, they’ll come around eventually.”

Sportacus didn’t feel as sure as he would’ve liked about that. “I should talk with them and I need to move my FlyPod. I’ll be back soon to help again.”

“That plane thingy you saved from the ship seemed important to you, so take your time, man,” Reeds replied. “We got twelve workers and this ain’t our first rodeo, as you know. We got this.”

“Thirteen,” Gibs corrected.

“Thirteen?” Reeds echoed and frowned.

“Yeah, last time I counted.”

Reeds pinched the bridge of his nose in what had to be exasperation. “I _hate_ it when they do this. How the hell do they expect to get paid if they don’t report in?”

“Is there a problem?” Sportacus asked.

“Nothing you have to worry about,” Gibs assured. “Internal miscommunication on our end, that’s all.”

Sportacus would have to take his word for it. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow then?” he said and took off the helmet to give to Gibs.

“Yeah, sounds good. And hey, if it’s any consolation about your kids,” Gibs said and tossed the helmet between his hands. “We thought that it would be proper with a topping-off party tomorrow when the roof trusses are in place. It’s been a while since we’ve had one of those. I’m thinking a barbecue. They can attend that, depending on if all equipment have been properly locked up, that is.”

That did sound like a good idea. “I’ll tell them that. And, they’re not mine.” They had already gone over that and the joke had gotten old, fast.

“Not their legal guardian, but you are their _guardian_.” Reeds said. “You were ready to take a point blank shot for that girl and you’re the local spirit here. They’re practically yours, though HR and safety regulations doesn’t acknowledge that.”

Aside that that type of reasoning was dangerous and why they didn’t flaunt their true origin among humans. Well, that just made Sportacus feel like a bad parent. And they weren’t even _his_. Not truly.

Maybe then they’d _listen_ and practice caution.

Coming from the same person that had used a plank to skate down a hazardous hillside just the other day, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dem kids do not know how to take a no.
> 
> I'm just going to accept that my average chapter length of 2.1k words is out the window :/
> 
> (yes, I know perfectly well what a Hedge Witch is, we'll come back to that later)


	12. A Devil in the Details

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Sportacus has about as many regrets about restoring the FlyPod as the fic author

As promised, Mr. Meanswell had cleared out what clutter there was. How much there had been Sportacus did not know, to him it looked like a regular hangar in its current state.

The hangar Mr. Meanswell had erected to the south of LazyTown for his plane was big enough to accommodate Sportacus’ FlyPod, though limited the space was, it was just enough for two aircrafts to stand side by side. And, propped up on two modified axle stands right next to Mr. Meanswell’s own plane lacquered in vibrant red and yellow, his own looked like an ashen husk.

He’d really bitten off more than he could chew, hadn’t he?

“Hi, Skutla,” Sportacus said softly to his aircraft, realising that he’d never addressed it out loud like this before, and how silly the nickname did sound. Well, while he was at it then, he thought, and lowered his gaze to the tarnished etching at the front, taking in the familiar figure he’d taken for granted lately and said, “hi, _Íþróttaálfurinn_.” The name dying out in the empty space of the hangar and Sportacus regretted it almost. Almost.

It had been over a decade now, coming close to two, after all.

He must soon be just as old, if not older, than his forerunner had been.

Sportacus hadn’t given it much reflection the past years to be honest, up until now. Now that it was all he had left.

It did put things into perspective, he supposed.

Focusing back on the aircraft itself before him, Sportacus experienced that feeling of being in over his head again. He was a pilot, not a mechanic, if that needed repeating for his own sake if anything. He could do some maintenance and all he could hope for now was that it would be enough.

For one; he’d need to get the engine and paddling in order, if he were to connect it to the setup he had in mind. Not too far from his current position, that house up on the hill would inevitably be connected to the town’s grid -as a backup. A bit backwards, yes. But, the more self-reliant he could be, the better. Better for the environment. And better for his wallet. Electricity cost money, food cost money, _existing_ cost money. Sure, he had some of it at the moment but that was not an income he’d come to realise. The allowance he’d had was modest but it had been steady enough. Heaven knew when he’d be able to re-establish contact with his kin. His left arm bracer was nothing more than a fancy digital watch at this rate, and his only means of communication had already turned out to be fruitless. Twice Sportacus had sent out that cylinder into the dark night sky, twice for naught. All of villain-kind seemed fully aware of his situation. Yet, nothing from his own. No ship coming to LazyTown to verify. Nothing but cylinders hitting the ground.

The only other option he had seemed bleak, even out of pure self-indulgence. Taking to the skies, was above and beyond.

No matter.

He wouldn’t have made it this far if he weren’t optimistic, even if cautiously so right now.

Sportacus readied the tools and pried the hood open to finally take stock of the innards. Pixel’s scan had given him an _idea_ of what to expect, but seeing it with the naked eye gave him an _understanding_ of how much work there was ahead of him.

The analysis had been proven true. Sportacus’ fancy of making the aircraft fligtworthy again would definitely have to be the last priority. He’d have to take the whole thing apart.

* * *

In the corner of his eye he saw two approaching figures coming up on the building; Stephanie and Mr. Meanswell, and he straightened up and smiled their way.

“Hi, Sportacus!” Stephanie greeted loudly and sprinted the last stretch into the hangar, leaving her uncle behind to walk at his own pace.

“Hi, Stephanie,” Sportacus said in return, “hi, Milford,” he added and gave the man a nod.

“Hello, Sportacus,” Mr. Meanswell said. “I see that you’ve made use of some of the tools, good, good. Do let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“Thank you, Milford, and thanks for sharing the keycode to the doors.”

“It would be hard for you to work on restorations if you had to rely on me opening and closing. Unfortunately, I only truly find time to tend to my own girl on the weekends.” Coming up close, Mr. Meanswell inspected the newest addition to his hangar. “I must say that this is the first time I’ve gotten to look at your plane.” Walking round it and tilting his head to the side as he inspected the rotor at the back and the double set of wings and came back up to Sportacus and Stephanie, he said, “it’s not truly a plane though, is it? I’ve seen you hover in place.”

“Thrust-vectoring system,” Sportacus explained and motioned for Mr. Meanswell to look at the underside of the fuselage near where the wings joined.

“Oh, I see,” Mr. Meanswell said, “that’s very rare for _civilian_ aircrafts,” and cast Sportacus a glance with a raised greying brow. “No data plate or visible model designation either…”

“No, it’s not… Custom for FlyPods.”

“A FlyPod, you say?” Mr. Meanswell stepped over to his own aircraft. “Does she have a name?”

“Uh?”

“This is _LT_ , short for LazyTown,” Mr. Meanswell said and Sportacus did now notice the small, winged, emblem by the front rotor containing the anagram for the town, “I was going to christen her _The Busybody_ , but alas, Bessie did not quite agree with that.”

Sportacus chuckled, that had to be a first for Ms. Busybody, to object to flattery like that. Although, it could’ve been a bit too profound and personal for her. His gaze was drawn to where he had put away the hood. At the etching. Sportacus wasn’t that much better himself, was he? His forerunner and friend sure would have had an opinion if he’d knew.

Deciding to humour Mr. Meanswell, Sportacus said, “it’s not official, but this is _Skutla_.”

“Skutla,” Mr. Meanswell repeated. “Does is mean scuttle? Oh I see,” he continued before Sportacus could reply, “like that fast ambling gait those ponies do?”

“Not ponies,” Sportacus corrected, “but like gaited horses, yes.”

Mr. Meanswell hummed and gave a small nod. “That so? Here’s to hoping that she’ll scuttle across the sky again soon. Though, it do seem like you have some work to do before that.”

“Yes,” Sportacus agreed. He didn’t bother redressing the pronoun. People liked to anthropomorphise inanimate object, to give them character. Female being the more common one.

‘ _Look after her, keep her in balance and she'll reward you. She'll work with you to get you where you want safely and she'll becomes an extension of your own hands._ ’ Sportacus had heard that reasoning long ago.

Logically, that would’ve been his ship as a whole. The audio vocalizer of the Virtual Intelligence had been programmed to simulate a woman’s voice after all.

He wouldn’t have called the disembodied voice condescending, but it had had a certain _wisenheimer_ manner to it. A Virtual Intelligence as he had been taught when he’d received it was not a true Artificial Intelligence, it did not have a personality or agency of its own, but learned from its user. So, its behaviour really should be a reflection of his own character then. He had spoken to it enough times over the years for it to collect data to form an imitation of a personality. An imitation of a comrade, even if it was just him at all times, alone and talking to himself.

“You know,” Mr. Meanswell said and turned back to his plane, “when I purchased my girl here, she was barely more than an old aluminium frame and a data plate. She looks vintage, but truth is that I had to do such an overhaul that most parts are new. Not much of a resell value from a collector’s perspective, but I’d rather have a functioning and secure airplane, than a collector’s piece any day.

Functioning was most certainly one word for it, seeing as Mr. Meanswell had with his plane aided in saving Robbie from yet another peril of his own making.

Yeah, Sportacus was definitely not too fond of tight spaces by now. That compactor had been another too close call, for the both of them…

Stephanie cleared her throat and both of the adults near jumped, being brought out of their conversation.

If she’d been more outspoken like Trixie, then Sportacus was sure that Stephanie would have had some choice words. As it was, her unamused dark eyes and crossed arms over her chest were enough indication of what she thought of what had to be a rather boring topic and needless time delay. She and her uncle had come there to meet up for a reason after all.

The topping off party.

The very one that they were probably running late to.

* * *

Had it been just Sportacus then he’d been there long ago, but considering Mr. Meanswell’s short stature and somewhat failing vigour both Stephanie and Sportacus had to keep pace so not to abandon him.

“I’m happy you could join us for the barbeque, Milford,” Sportacus spoke while they made their way up the now upturned and broadened path.

Mr. Meanswell replied, “so am I.” His breath already somewhat straining and climbed over the exposed rocks and roots, and with Sportacus ready to catch him if need be.

“That man,” Stephanie said, pointing towards where Sportacus could spot the crew waiting, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the bright colours of the rest of the townschildren, “said that I needed a legal guardian, so I asked Uncle Milford to come with us.”

Taking no risks of getting turned away again, Sportacus thought. Having a parent or legal guardian hadn’t been a requirement for the festivities.

“That too,” Mr. Meanswell said, nodding. “And I was curious to see what you’d been up to.” He looked up at the house as it grew nearer and said, “seeing it from a distance, it looked rather, uhm, _square_ ,” adding, “up close it’s still rather square. I’m not sure what I had expected, to be honest.”

Pixel had thought it a shoebox when he’d first laid eyes on the rough draft of it, so yes, it was rather square. Sportacus merely shrugged. “I need the space.”

“Bessie is there as well waiting with the other kids,” Stephanie chimed in again.

Sportacus realised that he had forgotten to invite Ms. Busybody. Seeing as Mr. Meanswell was attending, she might’ve taken it the wrong way if she wasn’t and he was grateful that Stephanie had had enough forethought to include her. He looked Stephanie’s way and saw her sly smile, the girl knew most certainly that she had saved Sportacus from a lot of explanation. He shot her a smile, trying to convey his gratitude.

“You’re late!” was the chorus of voices coming from the makeshift long table that greeted them when they finally arrived. Chairs of various sizes and models were placed round the rickety table that Sportacus was suspecting being propped up building material under the oilcloth tablecloths. And a couple of grills a bit further away where the twins stood and waved at them, the smell of burnt charcoal in the air. It looked like they were just in time in fact.

“Sorry,” Sportacus excused himself with a grin, it growing wider when he saw what the children had in waiting for him.

With the sour note the townschildren’s previous venture to the building site had ended on and in an attempt to make them feel involved in a more fitting way, Sportacus had asked them if they would want to make a wreath. Having explained that it was tradition to hang it upon the ridge of the roof.

It had paid out and beautifully so. The children had been more than happy with the task and the handicraft they presented as Trixie and Stingy stepped to the side to reveal the hidden wreath behind their backs surpassed even his own expectations. Considering the still early season there wasn’t much greenery in form of foliage, so the ring consisted of woven birch twigs and store bought tulips in bright colours.

It was rather pretty.

“Wow! Did you do this all by yourselves?” he asked.

“Yes!” Stingy declared loud and clear.

“Actually, Bessie bought us the flowers and showed us how to braid!” Ziggy added.

“But the rest is all us,” Trixie said, Pixel nodding along.

Sportacus spotted Ms. Busybody sitting by the very edge of the table, looking a bit out of place surrounded by the people present and gave a shrug and flick of her wrist. He turned his eyes back down to the children and the wreath. “Thank you, it looks beautiful. You did amazing work.”

“Of course we did,” Trixie said. “When do we get to put it up?”

“That would better be done by Sportacus, since we put away the ladder,” Reeds came sauntering from the grills, “sorry, we got a little too hasty there.”

Stephanie cast the man a dirty look. She hadn’t forgiven them for yesterday it would seem.

“Mr. Mayor,” Reeds concluded and reached out a hand for shaking Mr. Meanswell’s. “Beautiful little town you got here.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Meanswell beamed.

Stephanie huffed, rolling her eyes and stalked over to her friends, and collected the wreath and held it up for Sportacus. “Would you do us the honours?”

Sportacus tried reading her face, but the foul mood she’d displayed had either passed or she was better at covering it than he’d thought. Tentatively he took it in hand, appreciating the handwork up close. “I would love to.”

“I don’t see a ridge,” Pixel said.

“There’s an outcrop in the middle,” a worker supplemented.

“Right,” Sportacus said and saw the forementioned outcrop high over their heads and took two steps back, aimed and threw it like a frisbee.

The woven ring caught on the outcrop, pivoting and two yellow flowers came clean off before it settled. “Oops,” he said sheepishly, “sorry.”

“You owe me five bucks!” they heard Gibs shout from the grills and some laughter coming from the crew.

Sportacus picked up the two fallen tulips, not sure what to do with them. Table decorations? Stephanie motioned for him.

“Let me take them,” she said and took one and put in her head diadem. “Trixie?” she asked her friend.

“Eww no,” Trixie said and grimaced. “Too girly.” Before she said it, it had seemed like Ziggy had been about to say something but he shrunk in and lowered his hand. And Sportacus’ heart sank a bit with that.

Stephanie gave her an unimpressed expression.

“I guess I’m girly then,” Sportacus said and tucked the remaining flower behind his ear, securing it in place by his hat. “Not that there’s anything girly with flowers. Lots of boys like flowers, but its also okay if you don’t like them either.”

Trixie scoffed, “whatever.” Though, Sportacus saw the flush colouring her face.

Stephanie took the tulip out of her hair and went to Ziggy. “Would you like to have my flower instead?”

Ziggy nodded eagerly before letting Stephanie put it behind his ear.

“Hey, why don’t _I_ get any flowers? I want flowers too!” Stingy objected.

Sportacus was going to have to climb up to ransack the wreath, he figured. If he wanted to maintain the peace, that was.

* * *

A total of four flowers, with Trixie and Pixel declining the flowers the wreath still looked presentable despite its rough treatment and they’d started on the food.

“Isn’t it supposed to be called a topping off ceremony?” Pixel asked from his side of the table.

“Yeah, but ceremony sounds too formal,” Gibs answered, momentarily pausing from eating a corn on the cob, having let someone else watch the grill by now but instead found himself surrounded by the kids, even Stephanie who had seemed to thaw up after being given a tour around the building. “It’s more for official buildings and stuff. This here is how it’s meant to be; a party celebrating that the last beam is in place. Though, we have done a bit more than that now I reckon.”

Sportacus nodded, coming to collect the used paper plates. If they were on schedule then the exterior would be done by tomorrow and the interior on Monday, and ready to hand over on Tuesday.

Ziggy asked, “Sportacus, have you ever been to a party like this before?”

“I have, actually. When I was a kid.” He’d been a bit older than Ziggy and his memory was a bit fuzzy on the details, but he remembered how the whole elven community he grew up in had come together to celebrate. Nothing formal or ceremonious about it at all. Just like it was meant to be. “It was much like this.”

“Cool,” Ziggy said.

If Gibs had any plans on continuing eating then that was something of the past as Trixie leaned in over the table. “What happened to you and your brother’s noses?” she asked, wrinkling her own.

Gibs guffawed at the blunt question. “Ask Reeds,” he said.

“I did,” she replied. “He told me to ask you.”

“Yeah, what did happen?” Stingy joined in.

“Kids,” Sportacus said cautiously, trying to catch Mr. Meanswell’s eye but finding the man in deep conversation with Ms. Busybody and Reeds along with another worker by the far end of the table.

Gibs gave a wry smile and said, “of course he did. Well, what happened is that we were angry at each other one day and-” 

“And you punched each other,” Trixie interrupted, grinning.

“Nope,” Gibs said, “and now I won’t tell you because you were rude about it. You hurt my feelings there.”

“Meh,” she complained and left, going in the direction of Reeds, probably to try her luck there again. The other children standing up to follow her, the mystery having piqued their collective interest.

“What did happen?” Sportacus asked.

Gibs grinned and said, “we had a couple too many and punched each other because of a stupid bet. It was years ago.”

Sportacus was glad that the man hadn’t told the children.

“Not the smartest thing we’ve done, not the dumbest either to be fair. Alcohol do bring out the stupid in you, though.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sportacus replied.

“Hope you don’t mind me asking.” Gibs raised a brow. “But is it that you can’t or won’t drink? I can but I know Linda and James over there can’t even look at a bottle of beer without hurling.”

“Both.” Considering that he couldn’t ingest added processed sugars without crashing, he didn’t even want to speculate on what havoc alcohol would wreak on his system. Nor did he see the appeal even if he could.

“Huh, alright then. I did notice that you went for nothing but the plain veggies. You vegetarian as well?”

“Not really, but I only eat meat if I know where it’s from.”

“Smart.” Gibs nodded. “So what _is_ your vice then?”

“Fruit.”

“Seriously? Heh, guess there can be too much of a good thing,” Gibs mused. He looked up and swore. “You got to be kidding me.”

Sportacus looked up where the man was glaring, excepting it to be the children coming back from Reeds and ready to continue their questioning. But found instead a dark haired bespectacled man in a brown suit and carrying a briefcase come up the path.

“Friend of yours?” Gibs asked and to which Sportacus shook his head. Sighing, Gibs whistled for his brother to get his attention.

* * *

The height of the man was hard to properly estimate, but he had to be on the tall side, Sportacus figured, if the man would straighten his back. As it was, the stranger was almost crooked and Sportacus noted that he was favouring his right leg as he walked. Whatever ailed him, he didn’t seem to be in pain, from what could be assumed as he drew nearer. There was as well something familiar about him.

Mr. Meanswell seemed to recognise the approaching stranger. “Mr. Clarence?”

“Hello, Mr. Mayor,” Mr. Clarence replied, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief and adjusting his black square rimmed glasses.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with your family?” Mr. Meanswell asked. “It is the weekend after all.”

“I would,” Mr. Clarence said, “but this came in just recently.” He raised the briefcase, indicating that whatever this was about it had to be some official business.

“Oh,” Mr. Meanswell said, “I see. I’m sorry Stephanie, Sportacus, but it appears I have to attend to some matters.”

The man shook his head, “no, this is about this building that _you_ ,” and gestured to Sportacus and the supervisors, “are constructing without a proper building permit.”

What?

“Bull,” Gibs seethed under his breath.

Sportacus would not use those words, but he had to agree. He had a permit. One that had been processes and signed at the… And he now realised where he’d seen the bespectacled man: The local building permit department! “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You have permit for your housebuilding and your lovely, hrm, _driveway_. But not for major changes to water and sewer lines.”

“I thought that there was an already existing water and sewer line?” It had been right there in the cadastre! And deed! _And_ property map!

“Not quite. The sewer line cuts about there,” he said and pointed towards the grove, “and needs to be redirected down towards the east closer to town from there. According to my papers.”

“You got to be kidding me,” Reeds now joined in. “May we have a look at those papers of yours?”

“Of course, _sir_ ,” Mr Clarence said a bit too curtly and opened the briefcase to place the documents where they had cleared the table.

“Oh dear,” Mr. Meanswell said and came to join as well.

Reeds and Gibs leafed through the papers, seeing something that Sportacus was unable to, but the shared look the twins gave each other and the weary sigh was enough indication before Reeds said, “he’s right.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Sportacus asked.

“I’ll see if I can call our guy in charge of plumbing and set this straight,” Reeds said and was already punching in the numbers on his cell phone.

Mr. Clarence approached Sportacus while the supervisors made the phone call. “A word?”

Sportacus nodded and let the man take him to the side. Tensing somewhat when a hand landed on the small of his back to guide him.

“I’m not doing this to be devilish just for the sake of it,” Mr. Clarence started when he deemed it a safe distance, far enough to talk somewhat in private, close enough for the children to still glare angrily at the stranger that had crashed the party. “But, this has to be done properly. If you continue construction before being granted a permit then citations and fines will be issued. If worse comes to worst and a permit is not possible, the municipality _can_ decide to forcefully demolish the whole thing.” The grey tired eyes behind the glasses searched his own. “And being _buddy buddy_ with the Mayor himself and his administration will not change that fact, Sporty.”

At that Sportacus wanted to object, except the man wasn’t completely incorrect in his assumption. Sportacus’ personal connection to Mr. Meanswell and Ms. Busybody had indeed granted him a lot of leeway and made some of his immediate problems of late simply disappear. The comment still didn’t sit right with him, but now out of a sense of shame by being confronted with the reality of it.

“I understand,” Sportacus said, “thank you for bringing this to our attention.”

“Just doing my job. I… Apologise for ruining your picnic.”

Sportacus shook his head. “No, no. It’s not your fault. You said it yourself, you’re just doing your job.”

Mr. Clarence gave Sportacus a weak smile and patted his exposed upper arm and left his hand there to linger. The man had to be of the tactile type, or Sportacus did look like he needed comforting, though he’d rather it not be from a complete stranger.

“And naturally he doesn’t work weekends!” Reeds voice carried over to where they stood. “Sportacus, we got a minor issue!”

“I figured,” Sportacus said, unable to hold back the sardonic tone and found Mr. Clarence make a sound that sounded almost equal parts surprised and bemused in response.

The man caught his social error, too late. “Hrm, I’m sorry.”

“You said that.” Sportacus noted that the man was still clasping his arm and it was starting to become awkward.

So did Mr. Clarence and drew back, giving Sportacus his space back. “Well, no need for you to stop celebrating completely. Weekends should be for rest and no work, after all.” Contradicting the fact that the man had come in from his own weekend to work. “It is a rather lovely… Box you’re constructing?”

“It’s a gymnasium,” Sportacus said.

Mr Clarence looked up at the building again. “Oh. Will there be jumping and flipping?”

“Yes, most likely.”

“And ball throwing?”

“Yes?”

“I see…” Mr. Clarence worried his lip and pinched his brows.

Sportacus wondered if he had stepped in it somehow. Did he need another permit now? Though, the man didn’t comment further on it and let Sportacus get back to the table.

Taking the briefcase, Mr Clarence bid adieu, ignoring the cold stares from the others around him and gave Sportacus a small nod in parting before they watched him leave with that strange gait.

“Not fair,” Ziggy groused.

“Amen to that, kiddo. Fantabulous,” Gibs groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, Sportacus, man. We’ll still aim for Tuesday, but…”

“But we cannot promise that we’ll be able to fully maintain our commitment,” Reeds continued. “Not until that permit is granted.”

“These things happen,” Sportacus said, smiling to reassure them. Then turned to the children. “We’ve come this far and I see no reason to stop the party. We’ve come a long way and that should be celebrated.”

A murmur in the crowd and the children nodding along as well.

“Who wants to play games?” he asked.

Judging by the yesses and sound of cheer, that was a definite _yes_.

“Great! Pick a game or sport and I’ll join you,” Sportacus said.

“Do I get to toss a child?” a woman in the crew asked.

“You are not tossing the child, Linda!” Gibs replied.

“Aww,” Ziggy complained.

Sportacus chuckled and crossed his arms, resting on his side against the wall of the building to watch the game for a minute before joining in.

Savouring the moment and laughing as he saw a woman lift Ziggy and Trixie to cling onto one arm each. The children and two local adults present used enough to such displays to think nothing more of it.

Sure, there had been a wrench in their plans, but they could still enjoy today.

Besides, while they had to stall parts of the construction, this might give him time to work on the FlyPod instead.

There was still something, something nudging at the back of his mind to come through.

Sporty… Seemed like the nickname was starting to catch on, or maybe he hadn’t paid attention until now…

He was drawn out of his thoughts as he saw Ziggy come hurling through the air towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeet the child!
> 
> Gosh this has to be the longest chapter in this fic -so far.


End file.
